


Son of the Suns

by steelneena



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Anakin calls Qui-Gon Teacher instead of Master. finger-guns out for non-traditional Jedi training., Anakin dealing with his issues, Anakin definitely has anxiety here and in canon lets just be up front about that, Anakin is about as subtle as a brand new lightbulb flicked on in a pitch black room, Anakin isn't freed by Qui-Gon Jinn, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Existentialism, Gen, How the world changes as a result, It turns out an old fandom writer can still come up with new aus, Shatterpoints, Shmi is instead, Sort Of, The Force is Weird and Anakin is its child., The Jedi Council doesn't know something and that bothers them. like always, and world building. because its not star wars without gratuitous world building, bunch of stuff pulled directly from Tatooine Ghost, he's trying, he's trying real hard, introspective, ish i guess, lots and lots of lore, only real canon in this house - aka not disney, or the fundamental building blocks that are mythopoesis, really - Freeform, serious discussions of Anakin and slavery, the meaning of which disney might as well not even fucking know, whoda thunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 108,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelneena/pseuds/steelneena
Summary: The best day of Anakin’s life is simultaneously the worst of his mother’s. Though he knows that Qui-Gon tried hard to free him, and that his mother would have preferred that it were him, a big part of him is far happier that it is his mother who will no longer have to slave away without any hope of seeing returns, even if it means that he will not.There are a lot of ‘not’s that come with not being free.Not leaving Tatooine.Not becoming a Jedi.Not seeing every star system in the galaxy.And, a secret part of him whispers, not having to leave my mother.So, earnestly, over his mother’s quiet weeping, he thanks Qui-Gon Jinn for making sure that at least one Skywalker is free, even if it's not him.OrWhat happens when a slave boy doesn't become a Jedi.COMPLETE
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Cliegg Lars/Shmi Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker, its mostly background - Relationship
Comments: 333
Kudos: 581





	1. Desolation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwiftSnowmane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwiftSnowmane/gifts).



> I was watching TPM and AotC and this just suddenly...existed. I don't even know what to tell you. 
> 
> THIS AUTHOR DISAVOWS ALL DISNEY 'STAR WARS'. 
> 
> unbeta'd sorry. I have no patience.
> 
> For Swiftsnowmane. My dear friend in the Force.

The best day of Anakin’s life is simultaneously the worst of his mother’s. Though he knows that Qui-Gon tried hard to free him, and that his mother would have preferred that it were him, a big part of him is far happier that it is his mother who will no longer have to slave away without any hope of seeing returns, even if it means that he will not.

There are a lot of ‘not’s that come with not being free.

Not leaving Tatooine.

Not becoming a Jedi.

Not seeing every star system in the galaxy.

 _And_ , a secret part of him whispers, _not having to leave my mother._

So, earnestly, over his mother’s quiet weeping, he thanks Qui-Gon Jinn for making sure that at least one Skywalker is free, even if it's not him.

There is a moment’s pause after he breaks the news before Qui-Gon kneels down before Anakin. “Your focus determines your reality. Do not forget that. Quiet your mind, learn to listen, without and within. That is when you will hear the Force.” Qui-Gon tells him that he is very brave, and big hearted. Qui-Gon tells him not to lose that. That he will come back for Anakin, if he can.

It doesn’t make much sense to Anakin, who only nods. It doesn’t feel right to say anything else. But, as the tall Jedi leaves their hovel, Anakin knows somehow that it will be the last time that they see one another. Padmé, her eyes warm and brown, for all her pretty words can manage none. Biting her lip to stem the onset of her own tears, she gives him a slight nod and follows Qui-Gon Jinn out.

It is a moment that will be forever etched in his memory.

Things change, after that. His mom, never really one for tears, dries her eyes and pulls him close.

“Don’t worry, Ani, my little love. We will be together. That much I promise you.” Unlike Padmé’s, his mom’s eyes are hard, fierce. “Stay here, please. _Please_.” She stresses the last one, and Anakin nods, his own lip wobbling, though he doesn’t understand her concern. “I’m going to speak to Watto. Don’t go _anywhere_.”

“I won’t, Mom. I promise.”

And for once in his life, Anakin Skywalker stays put. At first, he walks in circles around the kitchen table, getting more and more ridiculous with the style of his stride with each circuit as he thinks about what on earth his mom could still have to say to her erstwhile owner.

Ten minutes pass before it suddenly hits him – so hard a blow is the knowledge that it actually knocks him off his feet.

_We will be together. That much I promise you._

The slave quarters in which he and his mother live are just that – _slave_ quarters. And as of his winning the race the day before, Anakin Skywalker’s mother is no longer a slave.

It is like this that Shmi Skywalker finds him, another ten minutes later: on the ground in exactly the same position he’d fallen, knees drawn up, blue eyes wide ,tear tracks streaked down his cheeks.

“Oh, _Ani_.”

His mother’s arms have never felt so good and he doesn’t try to say anything through his sobs at first. When finally they subside, he looks up at her, terror and hope warring in his features.

“Mom, what’s going to happen to us? Where will you go? What did Watto say?”

The wobbling smile that blossoms on her face is not enough to comfort him. “I am free, Ani. No more tracker, as promised. And Watto now has an _employee_. The wages won’t be much, I’m afraid, but we’ll be together – I can still stay here with you, Ani. We won’t be apart, my little love, my son, we won’t be apart. Just like I promised.”

It’s enough. The day is saved.

Even for those pressing minutes of terror, it is still the best day of Anakin Skywalker’s life. Nothing is better than knowing that his mother is free.

Just as Anakin had known, they never see Qui-Gon Jinn again. A few nights after he’d left, Ani wakes from a nightmare to his mother wiping hair, sticking with sweat, back from his forehead.

“What’s wrong Ani?” his mother asks

“I think Master Qui-Gon is dead.”

In that moment, he knows his mother is more afraid than sad, but he doesn’t know what it means. Isn’t sure he wants to. In that moment, all he does know for sure is that he will never become a Jedi. So instead, he commits every piece of wisdom the Jedi Master had imparted to memory.

_Remember, concentrate on the moment. Feel, don’t think. Use your instincts._

Watto works them harder than ever in the years after that. What wages his mother does make are garnished in exchange for the housing, which is exceptionally unfair in Anakin’s estimation, because he hasn’t lost a single podrace since that first win to save Padmé, Jar Jar, and Qui-Gon. The prize money alone makes Watto that much richer every year, not to mention his particular _luck_ when gambling, but his mom tells him not to press it. Begs him not to. The more races he wins and the older he gets, the more he’s worth, and the less likely it becomes that she will _ever_ be able to buy him his freedom.

At twelve, he’s grown rebellious, pressing his luck at every turn with anyone and everyone who talks down to him, fighting on the streets, selling parts on the side, attempting more than once to make a scanner for his own transmitter, though to no avail. The necessary parts simply aren’t available. While Watto had never beat them, and continues not to, that doesn’t stop others from punishing Anakin for anything from his lip to his violence – which he tends to incite . In that respect, the racing saves him, though his mother still hates it. On Tatooine, there was an old saying – ‘Chuba rocka rocka du shag che goola, chuba jeeska bu Lorda du azalus. Chuba rocka rocka du shag tah crispo, chuba koose du azulus tah chuba’ – ‘You beat a slave for an infraction, you save the Master the trouble. You beat a slave to death, you’ve made trouble for yourself.’ Of course, Anakin knew, he wasn’t just some slave. He was a _valuable_ slave. Probably the only reason Sebulba never outright tried to kill him, though he’d attempted more than once to make it look like an accident. For some reason, it never quite stuck. Even Gardulla tries to buy him back three times, but Watto isn’t willing to budge, so she bets on him in the races instead and makes her own pretty penny in the process. As the years pass, Watto treats him less and less like a slave, even considering his mom most companionably, but that doesn’t alter the truth of the facts. No matter how nice his Master is, he is still _Master_.

Despite the fact that he isn’t free, making his mother sad even on the best days, by sixteen, Anakin resigns himself to his fate. He likes racing and fixing things, and he’s good at both. Good being an understatement. Things aren’t _that_ bad, he tells himself, and looks away from his mother whenever he does. Once, he wanted to be free. But as time passes, his once grand desires for more seem distant and unreal. If this is all that he’s meant for, then what has he to squander? His recklessness grows, if that is possible. Only after he loses his first podrace in seven years, does he reevaluate what life should hold for him. For all sentients.

He’s hurt. Badly. Delirious from pain and trauma. It’s days later that he wakes up to his mother’s tear stained face and discovers that he’s lost most of his right arm.

Dutifully, his mother cares for him, though she hardly speaks a word more than necessary, and he feels the bitter seeds of regret plant themselves in his heart. He’s all she’s ever lived for, and he’s nearly thrown it away without giving her a single thought. Not really, no matter the platitudes his mind whispers to himself in justification. If he’s gone, his mother has nothing. No protection, no support.

Three nights after he first wakes up, when she’s come into the room to change the dressings, he finally cries, a litany of apologies falling from his lips.

As she holds him, rocks him like a little child, she whispers; “Promise me, never again, my Ani, promise me you’ll be careful. Ani, oh _Ani_.”

It takes a whole month for Watto to get him a prosthetic – can’t have his prize racer out of the games for longer than absolutely necessary. Which is more time than Anakin would like left to his self-reflection. Alone more often than not while his mother works, he finds himself thinking back on everything Qui-Gon ever said. Forced to be still and inactive, he tries to center himself, to listen inward in order to hear outward.

At first, things are fine. He descends into himself a ways, feels the world around simultaneously quiet and yet grow more active. It is only his depth of understanding that changes. If he can _feel_ so much more, what must it be like to descend deeper? To reach further?

When he does, he doesn’t like what he finds.

The well of power within him is on fire. It burns and burns like a star gone supernova. It’s _too much_. So much that it almost hurts. The flames whip into a torrent worse than any sandstorm he’s ever seen, a vortex that pulls at him relentlessly, threatening to tear him apart, and he struggles and struggles against their volatile embrace even as they lick away at him.

It’s then that he realizes just how much _anger_ is still left within him. How much he _hates_. How much he _suffers_. How – even though she is ‘free’ – his mother _still_ suffers.

He has _made_ her suffer. But it is others who have caused his suffering.

The supernova still rages wild, but Anakin can see the intent within it now, how the firestorm reflects his emotions back at him, how they respond. A bright, white hot shot of anger is a solar flare, while his regrets cool the flames.

When his mother comes home, she finds the little hovel ravaged, Anakin in the middle attempting to clean up. She doesn’t ask, though her eyes grow sorrowful, and he doesn’t offer, avoiding the soothing balm of her gaze. He doesn’t deserve it. For all he loves her, he’s _hurt_ her, and he can’t stand the thought, even though he knows it’s true. It’s obvious that she doesn’t know what to do with him. That she never has.

The wound within him festers.

The first thing he does after the prosthetic is attached is upgrade it himself. There’s nothing mechanical in existence that he can’t improve, and he keeps that one thing safe within his heart. Fixing things has always been his skill, and if he can fix the arm, make it better, then he can fix his mother, fix himself, fix the world.

He _has_ to.

He’s _meant_ to.

It’s all he has left to cling to in the midst of his shame.

(He doesn’t dare attempt to Reach Within again, afraid of what he might find. Afraid that the firestorm is worse, not better.)

Almost a year later, Lars comes around. It isn’t the first time he’s been around – the man bought a set of booster coils for a SoroSuub V-Twenty-Four a few years back when Anakin was manning the shop. But when his mother comes home smiling, only to describe the kindly man, he knows that it is the first introduction between the two. Something changes then, in her. Something that was starting to tremble, for all the rock solid strength she’d always had, shores up.

She _likes_ the man. Maybe even more than _likes_ , Anakin notes, and it does something for him too, settling the fury that is ever present in his heart.

Slow at first, and then all at once, Anakin watches his mother, Shmi Skywalker, fall deeply in love. It takes several months before Anakin and his mother’s suitor officially meet, when she brings Cliegg home after a day at the shop. More often than not these days, Watto has Anakin working on much bigger, better things, like improved pods, and refurbishing old speeders. He’s in the middle of one such task – fixing a broken shifter – when he feels his mother’s warm presence before he sees her, and a mostly unfamiliar one at her side.

“Ani! Ani!” she calls, and he cannot help but smile at the joy which rolls off of her in waves. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Cliegg Lars is just around the same age as his mother, if Anakin had to guess. Age is more or less determined on Tatooine by the amount of roughness the general living conditions have impressed upon one's skin and he looks certainly rugged enough – which is not to say that his mother is any less beautiful for her hardships, at least not in Anakin’s estimation. Nor, for that matter, Cliegg’s.

The man holds out a hand, which Anakin shakes solidly. “Pleasure to meet you, Anakin. I’ve heard nothing but your praises from your mother here.”

“Likewise.”

It’s an amiable enough start to the relationship, and the dinner that follows is the same. It is the conversation afterword that changes things.

“Why don’t you both move out to Mos Eisley – there’s work to be had, to be sure, even if it’s closer in influence to the Hutts”

The awkward response is belated. Anakin almost doesn’t know what to say. Never before has anyone ever assumed that he was free, well, not since Padmé, but that was only because she hadn’t known that slavery still existed. A part of him was sad that such innocence had been shattered. But that moment with Cliegg Lars is unique in and of itself. No one has ever assumed he was free, simply because his mother is too.

Anakin glances to her, reads the shell-shock on her face, the agony.

“We can’t,” he finally says, taking pity on the confused and well-meaning farmer. “Or at least, I can’t. If mom wanted to move, if it's better out there, safer, then by all means, I’d encourage her to.” Despite the way the words are indicated towards Cliegg, it is his mother’s gaze that Anakin holds. _You’re free. You’re in love. I want better for you._ “But I can’t go with. You see – “ _I’m a slave._

He can’t bring himself to say it, the words dying in his throat, dry as the Tatooine desert. His mother’s eyes – which have so long been absent of tears in her happiness, for which Anakin will _always_ be grateful to Cliegg – are glossy and red.

“Ani isn’t free.” Her words warp the space around them. For Cliegg, the world must tremble and tilt. Anakin’s no fool; he knows that the farmer loves his mother, can already feel the inevitability of their marriage, and this revelation changes everything. A single father, Cliegg knows all too well the dedication of a parent to a child, even one who’s more than half grown.

“There was a bet, a long time ago now. I was freed. Ani wasn’t.”

Cliegg only nods stoically. Uncertain for the first time in a long time, Anakin’s brows draw together as he tries to piece out what his mother’s suitor intends to do. Finally, he stands. “I’ll be back in a while.”

“Where are you going? Cliegg?!” His mother makes to go after him, and he stops at the door.

“I’ve got a speeder to go trade in exchange for your son.”

Taken aback, surprised – a speeder is _very_ important for a moisture farmer, a sincerely significant gesture – Shmi falters. It is Anakin who stands.

“Don’t bother. He’ll refuse you. Maybe, if it were my mother in my place, that would be enough. I’m not being prideful when I say that it will take more money than anyone in this room – anyone in this entire complex – will ever make combine in their lifetime to convince Watto to give me up. What do you know about podracing?”

Cliegg only shakes his head, confused once again. “Nothing really. Fast. Dangerous. Heavy betting pools.”

“In eight years, I’ve only ever lost one race.”

To his credit, Cliegg truly doesn’t seem to know much, because he doesn’t scoff at the mere insinuation that Anakin is capable of participating, much less winning.

“There’s got to be something. And I won’t stop until you’re just as free to go where you please as is your mother.”

With that, the gruff but kindly man is out the door, Anakin’s mother calling after him futilely.

Whatever passed between Watto and Cliegg Lars, it goes unknown to both Anakin and his mother. Watto is a bit snappish during Anakin’s stint at the shop that week, but he actually apologizes. On payday, Shmi tells Anakin that Watto paid her nearly double, and gifted her a bottle of Naduarr’s pallie wine. He doesn’t try to understand it. Hope is almost as terrible a thing as utter defeat, so he pushes it away.

The month that passes is strange to say the least. Cliegg comes more frequently, even bringing his son, Owen, around to meet them once. Then, he ‘leaves’, though neither Skywalker is dull enough to believe that he actually goes home. Peculiarly – were it not so obviously correlating with Cliegg’s presence, after each visit - Watto gifts them ever nicer things. A night off for Shmi, more fancy wine and better wages. A tub full of coveted parts for Threepio from the shop for Anakin to tinker with.

It comes to a head one afternoon when they sit on the roof of the hovel eating a much nicer than usual lunch.

“Owen and I have talked it over. We’re going to sell the moisture farm to buy out Anakin from Watto. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve escalated the price, and every time he’s denied me. But even the thickest skinned Toydarian wouldn’t pass up that sort of opportunity. And if he does, we’ll swat him and use the money to get passage off planet. For all of us.”

Anakin’s heart _sears_.

The moisture farm is everything the Lars’ have. They’ve staked their livelihoods on it, and maybe he’d have understood if it was his mother they were trying to buy out, but him?

“You’d do that?” he asks, just as his mother chimes in about the transmitter bomb which would detonate if they tried. “Why? Why would you do that?”

Cliegg settles him with a hard stare. “Everyone deserves to be free, son.”

Throat thick with emotion, Anakin shakes his head. “I refuse to let you give up everything you have for me.”

That time, it is Anakin who leaves them behind.

The walk to the shop is so routine, that Anakin barely remembers it. Outside, Watto is working on some sort of converter. It’s funny – as the years passed and Anakin grew and grew…and grew, tall as a tree, his mother was wont to say, Watto had taken to flying just a little bit higher to compensate.

An offhand grunt is all the acknowledgement he receives at first. Picking up some tools, they work in an almost companionable silence for a while under the ratty flapping tarp, before Watto speaks up in their customary Huttese.

“Dat Lars…’e wants to buy you real bad, eh boy?”

Anakin only shrugs.

“ ‘e loves your mother that much, eh?”

A nod.

More silence.

“How’s dat arm holdin’ up?”

“Fine.”

The clicking of metal, the shush of the wind in the sand. Anakin stills himself, focusing on the way that the part before him must reconnect with the wiring of the main circuit. It’s the most soothing thing in his life, aside from his mother. Putting pieces together.

“Dat _Jedai_ , he wanted to buy you real bad too. Tried to stack the odds. But I caught ‘im at it.” Watto’s wings fluttered a bit as if in annoyance. “But ‘e didn’t try to fight me about it.” The mention of Qui-Gon takes Ani by surprise. Aside from his general greed and desire for a good deal, Watto is difficult to read. Toydarians are particularly strong minded, which is partially why Watto’s managed to do such good business for so long. “ ‘e was thinking you could’a been a _Jedai_ too, methinks.”

It stings, hearing how close he’d come to that future. How Watto prevented it, but Anakin pushes it away. He’s felt the same for such a long time that the emotion is well worn, like good leather shoes. Familiarity is comfortable.

He might as well get used to it.

Three days later, Anakin’s mother rushes home, a smile on her face. Behind her, Cliegg and Owen, looking self-satisfied. Something feels… different.

“Ani! Ani! You have to come to the shop Ani!” Tugging him by the arm, she turns right back around tugging him with her, her face captured in the most youthful smile he’s ever seen, as soft and warm as the first morning’s sunrise. Watto is affecting a scowl, and shakes his head.

“I tell you already, you don’t be needing the transmitter. I deactivated it years ago – thought he might get it into his head to run after that crazy _Jedai_.”

It takes Anakin a moment to realize that he’s stopped himself stock still in his tracks. Cliegg takes the transmitter wand to a place just behind his jaw. Whatever Cliegg sees must satisfy him, and Watto is scowling – sulking even, but Anakin isn’t processing any of it. His mother drags him away again, laughing happily, and Owen and Cliegg too, but Anakin feels –

Nothing.

“You’re _free_ , Ani!” His mother’s jubilance rings in his head. “You’re _free!_ ”

Stumbling after her, it’s all Anakin can do not to fall over in his utter disbelief and giddy excitement.

Free.

_Free._


	2. Counterbalance

Without a pod, Anakin doesn’t race again. Some part of him had already decided, even before the Lars’ came into their life, that he wouldn’t. Watto could have made him, of course, but that seemed unlikely. The Toydarian had done well for himself off of Anakin’s many wins, but after his crash, the betting slowed up.

But all of that is behind him, now, and for as similar in its visual aesthetics as Mos Eisley is to Mos Espa, it seems a bright new future. It’s bigger for one, and even more corrupt, but there’s little that can deter Anakin’s excitement when he catches sight of the spaceport, which is positively thriving with foreign life from all over the galaxy. His spark of yearning, so long dimmed, is reignited, but there are now two new mouths to feed on the Lars farm and Anakin puts aside his dream for another time. He knows that his mother will not let it wither – she’s wanted for him the same opportunities as he has for far too long.

Work on the farm is its own brand of difficult in a way that their previous livelihood never was. Free now, and with no one any the wiser that he was ever a slave, Anakin finds that he has to hold his tongue in check better than before. He’s tall – some might even say imposing – and he doesn’t want to make trouble for their new family. He’s indebted to the Lars’, even though Cliegg tells him that family means there is no debt between them, that Anakin is his son now that he and Shmi are married, and Cliegg would protect Anakin with his life as sure as he would Owen or Shmi.

Finally clocking out his growth spurt at six feet, with his skin as tanned as ever and his hair grown long in blonde waves, strong jaw clean shaven, back always straight, he cuts an impressive figure. Years of work in the shop leave him with two jobs – bartering, a job which is only aided by his physical appearance, and fixing things, which is for the best. He teaches Owen what he can – the boy is only a year or so younger than Anakin – and in exchange his step-brother shows him around Anchorhead, which is at least a good day and a half’s speeder ride out from Mos Eisley, and an hour or so from the farm itself. The outpost is little more than a small town, and sheepishly, Owen introduces Anakin to his girlfriend, Beru, who instantly takes to teasing them both.

It’s simple, the life that they lead, and for a time, Anakin is content with it. On Boonta’s Eve, the first after his freedom is gained, Qui-Gon’s ghost settles thick in Anakin’s thoughts. He’s avoided looking inside for too long, and he can feel it all building up in his core, though his anger, once molten hot for all he’d kept it bubbling beneath the surface under disaffection and outright denial, is mostly gone cold and hard.

In the night, he pulls on one of his longer ponchos and sneaks out to the swoop bike. His mother catches him – he doesn’t wonder how. She’s his _mother_.

“Where are you going, Ani?”

“I have to do something,” he tells her. “Everything’s in tip top shape, and I know you can handle the bartering when Cliegg’s too soft with the Jawas. But I won’t be gone long, Mom.”

Lips pressed together into a thin line, Shmi Skywalker Lars caresses his features with her worried gaze. “Come back to me, my little love.”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

Wind whipping around him, Anakin strikes out into Great Chott salt flat, where there’s nothing to be seen for miles and miles in any direction, save behind, where the rapidly receding silhouette of the farm peeks up on the horizon like the rising triple moons. He doesn’t stop until the first sun’s red rays bleed into the blue of night and the Jundland wastes rise up strikingly to his left. Just beyond, the red rock formations give way to an expanse to empty it could drive a man insane.

The Dune Sea.

Out here, there is nothing and no one that he can hurt – he leaves the swoop hidden in the outcropping, feels that it will be safe there, more than anything - and continues walking, walking, walking into the shimmering orange and golden dawn.

When Tatoo I is half risen, he sinks to his knees and closes his eyes. Through the delicate flesh of his eyelids, the sun penetrates, and his world, instead of black, is red.

First, Anakin Reaches Within just a little, and then spreads that awareness out, like the time before.

Even in the vast emptiness, he’s surprised by how much he feels.

 _Life pervades, Anakin_.

The words echo, and he startles out of the _Within_ space, eyes flying open, but finds no one and nothing. Once more, he descends. There are no words this time, and he acknowledges all of the life around him for klicks and klicks; the deeper he goes, the farther he can reach and with greater accuracy, until he can pinpoint even his mother.

Pulling his focus from the Without, tentative, nervous, Anakin looks Within. A starfield, immense and unfathomable expands inside him, and there at the center, the Firestorm that was, is no longer. While flames still lick within him, they are tamed for the moment, and for the first time, he notices that there are two stars there, orbiting the same point in place of the supernova. A binary system, just like Tatoo I and Tatoo II. One, shining with warm brilliance, is a white dwarf, and the other, substandard at best, a red dwarf, cooler, but still aflame.

Confusion is a muted expression in his current state, though curiosity is not, and a brief note of wonderment at the idea of reversing a binary system already gone supernova passes through his thoughts, but it’s there and gone in a moment.

 _Further_.

_Deeper._

Anakin _delves._

The gravitational point at the center of the twin stars' orbit is exceptionally powerful. All the stars in the starfield are drawn out in false lines towards it, and even the solar flare from the stars themselves is syphoning into the empty space.

Terror, like being submerged in what Anakin imagines ice water to feel like, drips over him slowly, almost intently.

Where once there had been the subtleties of life, a roaring now fills his ears, drowning out the pin pricks of life that are the Tuskens and the Jawas, his mother, the Sarlacc, even a swarm of slumbering skettos among other things. But the roaring isn’t _sound_.

It’s the absence of sound.

The absence of all life.

A black hole.

Anakin screams, but hears nothing. He tries to recede from the Within, but finds that he cannot move under his own power. Terror, like a riptide, holds him in, sucks him down, down, down.

A hissing begins, rising, rushing, air screaming out of a sealed vacuum.

All semblance of control is ripped from his grasp and he succumbs.

When he wakes, the sun is beating punishingly hot on the back of his neck. He hasn’t moved, still on his knees, but the world around him is a glare of reflected light, and blinking back starshot spots in the black of his eyes, Anakin realizes that all around him, the sand has turned to glass. The cold trickle of fear sluices down his spine once more. But he can’t stay in the oppressive heat, so he rises and stumbles his way back to the overhang where he hid the swoop to shelter there in the shade.

He doesn’t try Reaching Within again, too close to the bike to feel comfortable trying. Wouldn't , even if he wasn’t afraid to do it again, afraid that the blackhole inside him, worse almost, than the supernova, might try to claim him if he tried. Instead, for lack of a better word, Anakin thinks.

He thinks about everything.

About his first day on Tatooine when the Arcona slave ran and his transmitter detonated. About the premonitious dreams of his youth. About a wounded Tusken in the desert, loyalty and honour, about Jedi and podracing, and angels from the planet Naboo. About shattered dreams and new hopes.

All his life – until recently that is – control evaded him. Control over his future, over his life, his choices. He’s lived without it, desired to take it for himself, and lost the opportunity, over and over. Even his own freedom hasn’t been in his hands. And now that he has freedom, now that control is possible, he has still has not been able to do the things he desires.

Above all else, he realizes, it is control he desires.

And it is control he so obviously lacks.

When night comes, he leaves the rudimentary shelter and returns to the same spot. A mirror of moonlight, the sand glass seems a veritable pool of water, the unbearable heat shimmering oily and diaphanous above it like a mirage.

The indents where he’d knelt remain untouched; no hint of breeze caressed the unforgiving landscape. He drops there, willing his desperation out into the world, quiets his mind, as Qui-Gon had said so very many years ago, and reaches inward.

Everything is the same, until he comes to the binary stars. The red dwarf seems larger, stronger, as the white wanes. This time, when he focuses on the inexorable pitch black abyss at the center, he doesn’t attempt to take control – it is inevitable that such is beyond his capability – he bows to the power within him. It is neither good nor bad, wants nothing, needs nothing, asks for nothing, simply _is._ And when he finally surrenders, it does not wait for him to be ready before swallowing him whole.

_There is light._

_It surprises him. He looks out from within the black hole. Only ozone, like lightning in the desert, fills his mental breaths. Looking down, he sees himself as he is. The light radiates from him. He looks back up. Time is slowed, the warring stars’ rotations passing mere micrometers at a time. Beyond the limit of the black hole’s gaping maw, a window broadens in the lonely emptiness from one far distant speck of light, a star that was not there before. His vision telescopes, the star growing closer. It’s a supernova, raging wrathful and untamable, and at the center a pinprick as small and inconsiderable as he feels, but one void of light and matter._

_Suddenly, from that emptiness, two yellow-red eyes open, glaring back at him. For all their fury, it is cold. Far, far colder than anything Anakin knows. But it isn’t alien. No, it's achingly familiar, and when the void smiles, Anakin feels his whole being sob._

_The cold darkness at the center of the supernova is_ him.

_Fear. Anger. Hate. Suffering._

_Death._

_Anakin tries to shut his eyes, and finds it impossible._

_R e a c h . . ._

_Simultaneously, one shadow-dark arm reaches out, even as he lifts his own, sun-bright one._

_From within blackness, light. From within fire, absence._

_As his hand passes into the maw, so does his dark twin's, and as they make contact, they merge, fusing at the palm. A thin plane of glass spires from between where they are joined and then, cracking, shatters._

When Anakin wakes, the middle moon is directly above his head on its path around the planet and the pool of glass around him is shattered.

_B a l a n c e . . ._

Exhausted, drained, he sits there, just breathing, relaxed onto his heels, head thrown back to watch the sky until the last moon passes over him and the blood sun is cresting the horizon.

Carefully, he picks his way through the glass, leaving it as untouched as he can, walks back to the swoop, and returns home. Back in the sightline of the farm, no one rushes to him as he pulls up. Owen is closest, fixing Anakin with a worried stare. Behind him is Cliegg, whose expression is much the same, and beyond that, his mother. Too far away, he cannot make out the quality of her features. He swings himself off the bike and descends into the homestead to clean up and eat something – his first meal in two days, he realizes – before heading out to see if anything needs to be worked on.

He’s not ready yet, to talk, to answer questions. A miasma of otherness still hangs about him and he wants to shake it, wants to feel like himself again first. Anakin likes company and conversation; the quiet is usually anathema to his humours, but right now, it is the only armour he has left to him. Without it, he worries that the slightest sound will shatter him as surely as the desert glass.

Cleaned and fed, and feeling fortified, he goes out once more to look for his step-father, finding him without difficulty.

“Where do you need me?”

Cliegg just looks at him. Stares as though Anakin’s suddenly become a two-headed Troig like the one who provides podracing commentary at the Boonta Eve Classic. Anakin rolls his shoulders, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“Cliegg?”

His step-father blinks rapidly. “Ah, could, uh…use some help on the vaporator, east side. Been making a funny noise.”

“I’ll take care of it.” As Anakin makes to step away, a rough hand falls gently on his shoulder. He stops, turning back. Cliegg’s concern is plainly painted on his face.

“You alright, son?”

Anakin opens his mouth to answer. Of course he is! But nothing comes out. Not a word. Cliegg’s brow creases further.

“Go inside, son. I’ll get your mother. The vaporator can wait a while.”

So Anakin does as he’s told and sits, slumping a little, in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, staring at the wall across from him. In his mind's eye, he sees the hand, dimensionless, abyssal, reaching out to him, the yellow-red eyes of his dark twin glaring back.

“Ani?”

Startling at his mother’s voice, he sits up.

“Ani, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Never in his life has Anakin kept anything of _real_ importance from his mother. She’d raised him to always voice how he felt, to share the experiences he had; part of that was due, of course, to the unfortunate facts of slave life, but she’d always encouraged it all the same, and he’d rarely done anything for which he felt truly shameful enough to hide it from her. Snitching parts from Watto’s shop and building things behind her back _didn’t_ count.

But how to explain what he had seen? What had – _had_ it even happened? He didn’t know.

She must see it all on his face, because she pulls a chair close to him, sits, then pulls him into one of her best hugs. The ones that are at once fiercely protective and impossibly gentle, and rocks him for so long he loses track of time.

Maybe minutes pass, maybe hours, but when he finally speaks, his voice feels raw. The words come rushing out, everything, all the way back to his disastrous first attempt at Reaching Within, the aftermath of which she is already well acquainted. When he’s done, he pulls back to look her in the eye, hoping to see anything other than his dark twin reflected there.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Mom!” The desperation in his voice surprises him.

Shmi bites her lip, reaches out a hand to smooth back his hair and then drops her hand to brush a knuckle against his cheek.

“You were made for so much more than this life, Anakin. I have known that since the day I first knew that I carried you. Whatever it is…Qui-Gon, he called it…” she pauses, and when she speaks again her voice is little more than a whisper. “The Force…” The word lingers in the air as though it has its own tangible substance. “Whatever it is, it’s trying to tell you something, Anakin. And all you can do is listen.”

He’s nineteen when the dreams start again. Except that they’re less dreams and more nightmares. It starts with his mother. The first time it happens, he writes it off as nothing. Tusken Raiders have always been a common danger in the wastes of Tatooine, and he’s had terrible dreams about them before, though nothing since his experience as a child in the storm with the injured one.

The second time he has it, he wakes in a cold sweat, and knows that it will come true.

Just after breakfast, while he’s helping her wash up, he asks; “Mom? Have you been going out to the vaporators to pick mushrooms lately?”

She quirks a brow. “Yes. Why? Do you want some before you head out to Mos Eisley for the day?”

“No. Just… can you just… not go pick them for a while?”

“Ani…” she looks at him skeptically. “If you don’t like mushrooms-“

“Please, Mom? Please, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

That gets her attention. Sharp, dark eyes catch him in their gaze. “Ani, tell me, please.”

He tries to shrug it off, pulls away to look down at the dish in his hands. “Had a dream. It’s not safe.”

A hefting breath fills the space between them as she finally understands.

“I think we can do without mushrooms.”

The tension in his back releases and for the first time since that morning, Anakin finds he can breathe.

For the next two weeks, everything is bliss, and then the new dreams begin. They’re suffused in a more reddish light than that of Tatooine, and even though the rock formations are similar they’re nothing like he’s seen before. Neither are the winged sentients which he sees swarm the landscape. Giant, circular ships lurch from their landing pads embedded in the ground. Laserfire in red and green spits back and forth between gleaming white helmets which dot the surface. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, never even imagined.

And then, he sees the lightsabers.

When he wakes up, he tastes death in his mouth.

Sometime in the future, on some unknown planet, hundreds will die, and there’s nothing he can do about. They barely have the credits for parts to fix the northwest vaporator, much less send a message to a core world to warn the Jedi, and he lays there chilled by his helplessness. Shaken, he keeps mostly to himself. Everyone in the household notices, but they’re kind enough not to say anything. Whatever his mom tells them about him, he’s not sure, but they smile at him kindly and continue to treat him like family. Death on his mind, it is the first time he thinks about how much he truly loves his step-father and step-brother, instead of just appreciating them.

He’s so upset, he even tells them.

Owen smiles wide and reciprocates. Cliegg rubs a hand comfortingly along his back.

The next night, it happens again. And again. And again. Every night for the next thirteen days, he has the dream, and his family watches on unable to help.

On the thirteenth day, while he’s out at that same northwest vaporator, a _wave_ comes over him, so strong that he falls to his knees, retching.

Death tastes like pallies too far gone; sickly sweet, the powdery aftertaste of rot stale on his tongue. The next thing he knows, Owen’s got an arm around him, hauling him up. He’s speaking, but Anakin doesn’t register any of it. They’re empty platitudes at best, words likely meant more to comfort Owen himself, just this side of panic edging into his tone, than Anakin. He’s half dragged back to the homestead, Owen yelling for their parents, who rush out frantic to help them below. But all Anakin can see, think, feel, taste, is death. Hundreds and hundreds of deaths. They keep coming and coming and he feels like he's drowning in the wake.

“Ani! Anakin!” His mother’s tone, her hand on his brow is the only thing that brings him back from the precipice. “Ani, my little love, what’s happened? What is it?”

“They’re all _dead_.” His words are a sob. “They’re dead. They’re _still_ dying.”

“Who Ani? Who?”

“Jedi! _Jedi!_ Others too, but _Jedi, so many Jedi!_ ” Another wave of death hits, and blackness takes him.

Beru is with him when he wakes, a grim look on her face, until she notices that he’s conscious again and a false smile takes its place.

“What happened?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Her eyes are sad and the smile wavers, drops completely. “War. Anchorhead got the news from Mos Eisley. Spaceport’s overrun with ships. Republic Forces were captured on Geonosis and now they’re saying there’s going to be a civil war.” She shakes her head, blonde hair falling in her face. “They said thousands died.”

Anakin’s heart hurts.

“I know.” Rolling over a little, he sits up and holds his aching head in his hands for a moment before swinging his legs off the bed. “How long’ve I been out?”

“Two days.”

“My mom here?”

“Yes.”

In mere moments, he’s thrown on a new shirt, fixes his belt around his waist. “I’m going to Mos Eisley. You need a ride back to Anchorhead?”

“No, but thanks. I’ll go tell your mom.”

He dresses in the best he’s got – dark brown pants, a matching shirt and over-vest, and a secondhand jacket his mother bought him for the wedding. He puts on the necklace she’d made for him all those years ago and stuffs his belt with any of the loose tools he’s got laying around in his bedroom and the few credits he’s got to his name from fixing the Darklighter’s speeder. In his satchel he packs a change of clothes, the holojournal his mom found in her last year working for Watto, his whittling supplies, and a knife he’d carved from a bantha tusk.

When he turns to go, Cliegg is in the doorway, watching silently.

“Where you going, son?” There’s no judgement in his tone, only a sort of sordid resignation.

“Mos Eisley.”

Cliegg nods. “Better take this with you then.” In the proffered hand, a blaster. “Picked up another from the Jawas, just to make sure, but this one’s my old one. It’ll keep you safer than that knife of yours.”

“Thank you, Cliegg.” Anakin says, and when his hand rests on the grip, Cliegg’s other comes over his, pressing and holding, and then, suddenly, he’s pulled into a warm hug.

“Be safe, Ani. Please, be safe. We love you, boy.”

They both pretend there aren’t tears in their eyes.

Outside, his mother, her arms pulled about herself, waits. Owen and Beru watch on from the hall.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Anakin says. He can’t think of anything else that can possibly make muster. “I have to go.”

His mother, strong as ever, shows no grief. There is only acceptance.

“I know. This is what you were born for.”

“I’ll go with you to the Spaceport,” Owen offers.

When they zip away, Anakin focuses on the horizon, his mother’s voice echoing in his head.

_Don’t look back, Ani. Don’t look back._


	3. Wayfarer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't said it yet, but I use wookiepedia/legends for a good majority of my research. Nothing here is chosen lightly. 
> 
> For this chapter, I spent way too much time with the Essential Atlas. More time than was strictly necessary. I also made use of a few great Star Wars RPG travel simulators to determine timeframes and parsec averages. It's not perfect, but I tried.

It’s not difficult to find passage offplanet in Mos Eisley. Just as Beru said, the Spaceport is overrun with the ships restocking and refueling before they rocket out of the Arkanis sector. War is profitable for the sort of folks that frequent Tatooine, but no one wants to be too close to the infighting if they don’t have to be.

Anakin can feel the tension, a heavy fog cloying the place almost as badly as the exhaust fumes and t’bac smoke, and looks for someone with a clear head. Mos Eisley is a diverse place. Rodians, Defels, Humans, Lutrillians, Bith, Advozse, Arcona, Twi’lek, and even – Anakin does a double take – a Kiffar? populate his immediate area.

Nothing feels right.

Winding his way through the crowd, he passes a group of grumbling Nimbanels arguing with a lone Mandelorian. The general feeling is _hostile_ , to say the least and he steers clear. There’s not much he’s got to his name, and so can even less afford to lose any of it. He crosses Kerner plaza and heads back towards the community junkyard, where he knows that a lot of spacers go to stock up when they’re not flush with credits, before promptly heading to Chalmun’s.

He’s never been in the cantina before – alcohol isn’t his strong suit, he discovered at the party after his mother’s wedding – but it’s the perfect place to find gossip and possibly passage of planet. The best hope Anakin has is finding work. Between his relative fame in the racing circuits and his small time gigs as a local mechanic, he can only hope that if someone asks a local, he’ll have enough credability to back him up. If not there, the used droid lot lies just beyond, and if there’s one thing spacers are always running out of, besides spice to smuggle, it’s droids.

He doesn’t even make it all the way to the junkyard when he spots the Cerean. Lithe and made exceptionally tall by her binary brain system, the woman’s graceful saunter and relaxed demeanour draw Anakin’s attention. Her elongated forehead slopes to a flat plane, connecting with a fine nose, over which a tattoo of green is laid in a single thin stripe, ending just a finger’s length above her brow. Dark hair drops in intricately braided tiers starting from the apex of her skull and falling over bare pinkish shoulders and dark leather spacers gear.

The moment he spots her, she makes him.

“What’re you looking at?”

“A spacer.”

Her finely arched brow arches higher. “That’s diplomatic of you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What do you want, then?”

“A job.”

Bright green eyes narrow. “What makes you think I’m looking to hire?”

He shrugs. Only with his mom and Qui-Gon has the phrase ‘a feeling’ ever really meant anything. “I’m a good mechanic and I can fly anything.” While not strictly true, Anakin’s not yet met anything he couldn’t fly. For a decade he’s raced pods and only crashed twice. In a pinch, he’s sure he could.

To her credit, the Cerean still looks skeptical. “That so.”

“Ask a local. They’ll tell you as much.”

Cocking her head slightly, the Cerean considers his words for a moment, but Anakin doesn’t worry. Nothing’s felt quite so _right_ in a long time.

“Maybe I will. Where can I find you…”

“Skywalker,” he replies. “Meet me outside the Cantina if you find your curiosity sufficiently satisfied.” Without waiting for her to respond, he walks past, keeping his shoulders back and straight as he can. _You’re going to help,_ he reminds himself. _You’re meant for more than this._

Half a standard hour later, he looks up from fiddling with the circuits of his cybernetic arm to see the Cerean watching him carefully.

“What’re you looking at?” he parrots back, unable to keep the tint of insolence from his tone.

“Apparently the only human alive who can podrace, among other things.”

He can’t help it – Anakin barks out a laugh, slipping the tools away into his belt, closing the maintenance cover and pulling his glove back up over his wrist. “So am I hired?”

A moment passes where she gives him a once over, appearing to be in quiet contemplation. “I guess you’ll do. I’m Nal Cherera, Captain of _the Huntress_ , and you’re in luck. My last mechanic jumped ship, so I guess you’re up. But you slave to my flight plan and schedule, and if we ever happen to end up where you want to be, then you get lucky. Understand?”

 _Slave_. The word chafes. It means no control once again, but he has the option this time to be in the position, or to avoid it entirely. But it still feels right. It takes a moment, and he can tell she’s growing uncertain, but eventually, he nods. “What’re we flying then?”

“Light freighter, Barloz class.”

“That’s Corellian make.” In his mind, Anakin can easily envision the spade-like ship. “Base factory specs have it at a hyperdrive four, with flight grade repulsorlifts, but my guess is that it’s pretty well modified.”

Nal Cherera smirks, and even if he doesn’t completely trust her – this _is_ Mos Eisley after all – it’s a kindly look. “You’re good, Skywalker. You’re damn good.”

Even though _the Huntress_ only requires two beings to crew, when Anakin is brought back to the ship, he learns that there is a third on their voyage. An avian Fosh, Nal Cherera explained, named Qrere. The gunner. His polite, if reserved greeting is summarily ignored, and the Captain sweeps him further into the ship to the small, closet-like quarters that would be his for the duration of his time with _the Huntress._ In less than four standard hours, he’s been taken on a thorough tour of the ship, checked and double checked all her operations, and prepared for departure. Qrere, whose sharp red eyes look a little mean no matter the state of his mood – which the light grey of his feathers tells Anakin is mistrustful, according to Nal, who also tells him not to feel offended, because Qrere doesn’t say much to anyone – stays mostly out of Anakin’s way, and Anakin isn’t entirely sure how easy that’s going to be, considering he’s been in Nal’s employ quite a lot longer. But Nal and _the Huntress_ felt right, so Anakin pushes aside his misgivings toward the naturally suspicious and self-interested Fosh. Once they clear the atmosphere, Anakin watches over Nal’s shoulder as she programmes the hyperdrive.

“Usually, people ask where they’re heading before they get on the ship, you know,” she says without looking up at him, plugging in the coordinates for Magravia – Q17 – casually as anything.

“I’m not people,” Anakin says, and he feels like it's true. ‘People’ don’t have binary star systems going supernova inside them. “’sides. Doesn’t matter where we’re headed.” If he tries hard enough, saying it might just make it so. Letting go of his sorely won control is difficult. Letting the feelings he gets guide him is a little like executing a trust fall with someone he’s never met before, but it feels right all the same. “I’ll get where I’m meant to be eventually.”

“Thasssss odd talk.”

Qrere. The Fosh has come up behind him, eyeing him carefully, feathers puffed. Anakin folds his arms, feeling a little like puffing up himself.

“’s true.”

Nal looks between the two, appraising. “Well, you’re supposed to be some ace pilot, podracer, so get over here and show me what you know.”

He does as he’s told.

 _Slaved_ – but on his own terms.

He thinks they’ll follow the Corellian Run, which he knows is the largest hyperspace route in the galaxy, but when they transfer from Magravia to Llanic, landing at a less than reputable spaceport as a ‘pit stop’, he’s positive that Nal and Qrere are spice smugglers. They leave him with the ship both times, taking cargo on at Magravia, and removing it at Llanic. Qrere watches him constantly, and he makes no attempt to find out what they’re hauling by way of response. He doesn’t need to die before he can do any good, he rationalizes, and living his whole life on Tatooine hasn’t exactly made him feel uncomfortable with the spice trade; rather, it’s a simple fact of life, and he’s already made more credits than he’s had in his life by doing, essentially, nothing more than working up routine maintenance and watching the ship while they’re gone.

Not a bad gig.

Altogether, he’s only been in space six days – covering about 4 parsecs without any black holes or other space abnormalities to reroute them in a less direct manner – and it’s already colder than it has any right to be. He fights to stop himself from wearing both his shirts as well as the over-vest and coat, and whittles to pass the time when there’s nothing to fix and no actual flying to do. Each night, he makes an entry in the holojournal, which he intends to send to his mom when he’s got the credits to do so, and enough stories to fill the first data chip’s memory. He and Nal take shifts at the con, after she’s satisfied that he won’t accidentally bring them out of hyperspace in the middle of a Type F sun or something.

Their next stop is Mon Gazza, and he’s finally given a shot at shore leave; Nal accompanies him off, Qrere indicating his desire to stay on the ship, and when Anakin steps off, he realizes why. The last planet he’s seen without transperisteel between him and it was Tatooine, but for all the distance he’s traveled, it hardly seems as though he’s left. Mon Gazza is as dry and arid as his homeplanet.

More than a little disappointed, he glowers, but keeps his opinions to himself, following Nal into a seedy bar. The food at least is good, and the holoscreens show a selection of live broadcast podraces. Suddenly, he understands why she brought him along. They find a booth, sliding in opposite from one another. A Twi’lek, skin an iridescent shade of plum, takes their order, and they sit in silence. While he watches the podrace – or feigns to, at least – Nal watches him.

Their food and drink arrive and Anakin wastes no time digging in. Even a few days on ration bars has him wishing for his mother’s stews, but the one he’s chowing down on is almost as good and _nearly_ as spicy. Nal doesn’t touch whatever foreign dish is placed in front of her, instead tipping back a glass of Corellian ale, eyes still trained on him.

“Don’t you drink?” she asks after a moment, indicating his own glass of Phonton fizzle Quanta.

“Doesn’t agree with me. I like to keep a sharp head.”

She nods. “Right. Only human podracer. Can’t imagine alcohol would be your friend.”

Something’s off. He sets down his fork, sits up. Waits.

“By now you’ve got to have figured what exactly it is that _the Huntress_ deals in.” The wry curve of her grin is as sharp as her eyes. She shifts, ever so slightly, and Anakin _knows_ that she’s pulled her hip blaster. “Which means it’s time to see how you feel about that.”

“Don’t care.” Disregarding the threat completely, he leans back over to finish his meal. Nal Cherera’s amusement is palpable around him, but the danger hasn’t dissipated. He sits back up, just a bit. “I’ve lived my whole life on Tatooine. Spice is an integral part of the galactic economy,” he states with sarcastic seriousness. “Look, you’re paying me, and I get to see the stars. I’m not complaining. I’ve got everything to gain here, and very little to lose.”

At that, Nal laughs heartily, lifting her weapon above the table, barrel towards the ceiling in nonchalant ease. “I like you, Skywalker. I like you just fine. You’ve got an attitude, but you’re sharp and I wish more of my mechanics were like that. This planet’s a shadowport, home to the second biggest spice production operation in the galaxy. You’re in mining central, as it were. And we’re here to pick up some cargo. If I can count you in, there’s more money in it for you.”

He doesn’t say no.

Pick up is easy. He goes with Nal to the meet; a Rodian’s the contact, and he’s wary until Nal tells him that ‘Skywalker’s clear’. With that, the rest of the deal goes down without a hitch and they’re back on _the Huntress_ only a standard hour later. Qrere still watches him warily, but the grey in his feathers fades to a subtler green and he knows that he’s being tolerated, at the very least.

The next six and a half days are spent in hyperspace on the carefully plotted Corellian Run heading for Byblos. At twenty parsecs, it ought to be one kriffing hell of a trip, but that’s the strange thing about space travel that Anakin loves – distance is relative depending on the route planned. All in all, it would take longer, logically, he knows, to get from Alderaan to Coruscant because of the density of the stars at Galactic Centre.

One night – well, it’s all night in space, no matter the time on a chrono – he sits up with Nal in the cockpit, listening to her stories. It makes him feel little again, like the boy who had a galaxy of dreams inside him, sitting at the knee of a gnarled old spacer. He eats it up, trying not to look too eager. From time to time she gets a soft look on her face, and Anakin can feel the affection she carries for some of the people in her stories, the maudlin for those who are gone. It’s after one of these that she stops and looks over to him and asks him to reciprocate in kind.

For a while, he wonders what story to tell. He hasn’t got much beyond his racing exploits, really, and he says as much, but she presses and he sighs, not in the mood to deal with her should he refuse again, and tells her about the time when he was eight and he spent the night nursing a wounded Tusken Raider back to health. Whether or not she believes him, he decides doesn’t matter.

A lull in conversation follows, but a tug in Anakin’s mind pushes him to ask about Geonosis. Nal looks back at him, expression a mask of carefully concealed emotion, but he can feel her surprise. In response, she shrugs, tossing her thick black mane, which clinks with metal beading.

“More money for us, if you’re wondering how I feel about it.” It’s about what he anticipates, but she continues. “If you’re asking what I know, the answer’s not much. There’s been rumours all over about some new army. Clones, I hear tell, fighting alongside Jedi.” Audibly, she scoffs. “I don’t think it’ll last long. Nemodians and Geonosians up against a whole host of Mandelorian bred clones? Droids are pathetic in a fight.” As if to punctuate, she spits the words, comfortable in her assurance.

Anakin feels discord and untenability, and he thinks she’ll live to herself proved wrong, but says nothing. When it’s over, she tells him to get some sleep. He goes willingly. There’s nothing more to say, after all. Before heading to the bunk, he stops in the hall to raid storage for a ration bar, behind the sounds of his rummaging, a soft voice rises.

“Sssssky Walk-k-k-er.”

Qrere’s bunk door is open, and the Fosh is watching him closely, long neck held at what would be an excruciating angle for a humanoid. One taloned finger (of which Qrere has four) beckons to him. Feathers still green, Anakin takes the risk and leans in the gunner’s doorway, munching on the tasteless ration bar absently.

“Qrere.”

“Catch.”

Anakin nearly doesn’t see it. The Fosh is exceptionally quick, but Anakin catches the spanner, which while thrown with considerable force, lacks malice. Half a second after it’s flung, he catches it.

“What was that for?”

With a trilling click of his beak and a sharp jerk of his head, Qrere’s beady red eyes narrowed. “Little chicks should fly carefully in big skies. Sometimes being quick won’t be enough when the Felucian Ripper goes hunting.”

Stone-faced, Anakin tosses the spanner back, comparatively gentle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The rest of their week plus passes relatively uneventfully and they dock in Byblos without trouble. But that’s where the ease of their journey ends. The buyer being so near the core isn’t atypical, Anakin presumes, but the Colonies are rife with their own problems. Byblos is a manufacturing based world, rich less in culture and more in credits, so there’s smuggling aplenty, while the planetary government tries its best to appear civilized.

So, his first firefight isn’t exactly what he expects. The primary reason Nal hired him, it turns out, is because he’s human, and Byblos is primarily habitated by immigrated Corellian humans. While a Cerean doesn’t stand out too much, especially a female, a Fosh is another story.

None of Nal’s rationalization serves to make their delivery go any more smoothly.

The product is neatly dropped off – that’s not the problem, though he gets a sharp glare for his unfamiliarity. Regardless, Nal is trusted and the payment is made. It’s getting out that ends up being…problematic.

Qrere spots the police droid, notifies them on their way out, but it’s not enough. Anakin’s not felt right since they left the ship, but he knows he made his choice, and sticks by it anyways. His reflexes do come in handy, whatever his crew member might think, when he slams into Nal, pushing her out of the way of a plasma bolt fired from the well-aimed blaster of a GSB agent.

Most of the plan after that consists of running towards the ship as craftily as possible while firing over their shoulders, or, in Anakin’s case, running backwards for a moment to give his Captain cover. They vault back onto the loading dock ramp of _the Huntress_ just in time for Qrere to shut the dock flap, and it’s Anakin who is up like a shot for the controls while Nal is still picking herself up, catching her breath. She moves none too slowly, but Anakin feels like everything about him has sped up, his muscles twitching, mind spinning, and he’s engaged the engines before she’s even made the cockpit, rocketing them out of the spaceport, laser fire singeing the rear hull behind him. Once they’re past atmosphere, he punches the coordinates for Corellia as quickly as he can, and they’re gone before the GSB agent can even make it off planet to see their engine trails.

Corellia is unlike anything Anakin’s ever seen. After spending thirteen years in the Outer Rim, he’s made it twenty-six parsecs into the Core of the Galaxy in little more than three weeks. It stuns him to think how much has happened, how much has changed. It’s such a great distance, but such a short time, and Corellia may as well be the polar opposite of Tatooine. Even as they fly over the planet, he gapes in awe. The world is blue and green and white and _alive_ in a way that desert planets can never seem. Oceans sparkle and mountains rise, and clouds! Actual clouds! cover their descent. It’s lush and wonderful, even when they arrive in Coronet. With its gracefully sloping and spireing transperisteel buildings reflecting the southern continent’s bay in the golden light of dusk, the capital city looks more like a dream than a tangible place.

Nal laughs at him, slapping him on the back goodnaturedly. She’s been very friendly since he saved her, her emotions lapping warm over his mind, and even Qrere’s feathers have been orange with delight ever since.

“We’ll spend a little sightseeing today, won’t we, Qrere?” she asks, and Anakin knows that it’s for his benefit.

Qrere clicks back in the affirmative; Anakin can barely manage a nod, wrapped up as he is in the grandeur around him. The Spaceport itself is magnificent, a technological marvel in its own right, but the city waiting beyond rises impossibly tall before him, the embodiment of every true dream he’s ever had. It’s overwhelming and he wants to bury himself in the sensation forever. 

Slinging an arm around his shoulder, Nal pulls Anakin in close. “We’ll save Treasure Ship Row for later,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Go get your kicks, Skywalker.”

For a while they walk, Anakin’s eyes impossibly wide as they pass small decorative parks filled with trees and flowers, the names for which he doesn’t know. Eventually, Nal leads them to the subways system, which follows the snaking paths of the old Selonian tunnel network. It’s impressive in its own right, and Anakin spends more time engrossed in discovering how the pre-mag-lev system works than trying to look at the tunnels themselves. They stop at the Corellian Space Museum, where Anakin’s left to his own devices for a while, with the assurance that his shipmates will be back in two standard hours, whether he’s done or not, and if that doesn’t cement how small and childish he feels, then nothing will.

But Anakin doesn’t care. He has two hours’ worth of artifacts from the earliest history of space flight to occupy himself with, and a holojournal to record as much of it as he can.

It’s growing dark by the time his two hours are up. Just as promised, Nal and Qrere are waiting outside for him, and they take the subway again to a much darker, seedier part of town. The buildings are tall, suffused in neon lights of flickering aurebesh characters proclaiming casinos, pawn shops, flophouses, and the much more heavily populated brothels. A few are without signs, but the people hanging around outside their entryways tell him everything he needs to know. Treasure Ship Row is rife with low-lives, smugglers, mercs, fences, and all the accoutrements that accompany them. Everyone is armed, from the bouncers outside the clubs, to the market grandmother selling foreign herbs. It’s almost decadent in its eclectic variety of people, of scents – even the air has a subtle taste to it. Anakin feels the hair on his left arm stand up a little as his senses hone. Curious eyes watch them, slip from them as they pass in favour of those who pass behind.

Nal turns them towards a cantina that is two stories high, with a bridge crossing above the street to a connected nightclub in the building adjacent. _Fel Swoop_ is packed with people from top to bottom and Anakin focuses as best he can to lend him a secondary read on the clientele, just in case. At a standing table, Nal buys them all Corellian whiskey, which he only sips at out of courtesy. It’s good, but it burns down his throat before warming in his belly, and tries to pace himself, not trusting his current company, nor environment any further than he has to.

Over the impossibly loud music and the euphonic discord of voices, Nal tells stories only she can really hear, Anakin nodding and laughing as seems appropriate, while Qrere stares down anyone who looks at them too long. The night grows deeper, but the nightlife doesn’t let up, even when their glasses are gone dry and they leave to find the streets much the same. Anakin’s feeling the buzz of good alcohol, misses most of the conversation where Qrere tells them he’s heading back to the ship, when he spots the tattoo parlour. He’s seen more than one heavily tattooed spacer, and while he doesn’t desire that particular look, there’s something about it that seems suddenly alluring.

“Not that one,” Nal says when she notices him looking. “Come on. I’ll take you to Lan Jos’ place. If you want something, get something worth having. And that’s a rule to live by.”

Lan Jos’ place is called The Traveler’s Harbour, and Lan Jos himself turns out to be a Duros. His large red eyes reflect the neon light of his sign brilliantly and his smile – as far as any Duros can actually smile – is quite wide.

“Nal!” He slides her name out slow, with the fondness of an old friend. “What Traveler’ve you brought with you tonight?”

“This is Skywalker.”

Vaguely, Anakin thinks that at some point, he should probably tell her his first time.

“Come for a tattoo, boy?” he asks, his thickly accented basic.

“Yes.”

“He inebriated?” That’s directed at Nal.

“Only a little.”

Anakin has the courtesy to laugh. “Yes, but I know what I want.”

“Then tell, and Lan Jos will make it reality.”

And he does.

In deep, midnight blue ink shaded gradient to black, the links form in a chain around his wrist. The alcohol alone would numb the pain, but Anakin feels nothing as the needle pricks over and over until it reaches just beneath the heel of his palm, where the links shatter, the twisted metal fragments forming the tiniest silhouettes of birds, flying away into the empty horizon. It’s small – just large enough to look natural, considering the design – but it still takes a chunk out of his paycheck. Anakin doesn’t mind. It means something, something important, and so is worth the credits.

The next day is meant for resupplying. The bacta patch he wore over the tattoo that night falls off just after breakfast, its job done. For a moment, he looks at the ink, considers their permanence. For a passing moment, there’s something that’s not quite regret, but it’s not all acceptance either. Anakin looks again, studying the admittedly beautiful work. In the daylight, against the golden tan of his skin, the birds look particularly fetching. It’ll grow on him, he supposes. After all, it’s there forever.

But it was his choice, and that makes the difference.

He’s on his way to a parts dealer to pick up a much needed pair of back up alluvial dampers when he passes a large holonet screen mounted on the side of one of the smaller skyscrapers. It’s not the words running in a steady stream across the base that capture his attention, but the face, half glimpsed in his peripherals.

It’s her.

It’s Padmé. He _knows_ that it’s her, despite the fact that the bulletin ribbon reads _Senator Amidala_. He ignores the mention of the former Queen and simply stares at Padmé’s beautiful, unchanged face. Everything else is meaningless, everything else fades away. She holds him with a gravity that only the black hole inside of him is capable of matching, terrible and alluring all at once. The only thing that knocks him out of it is when a pedestrian who is particularly engrossed in their datapad walks right into his back.

_Senator Amidala meets with Senator Bel Iblis to discuss vote on actions taken during Battle of Geonosis._

He thinks of nothing but her as he walks to the shop, nothing but her as he barters for the parts half-heartedly, nothing but her as he makes his way back to the Shipping Docks.

Nothing but her as he bids Nal Cherera and Qrere goodbye, with heartfelt thanks.

He let their path become his own, and it led him where he needed to be after all.

With everything he owns in the pack on his back, pockets a little heavier from the last payment for his services, and an address scribbled on a scrap of flimsy should he ever want to sign on again, Anakin walks back towards the urban center of the city, towards the sleek spike Coronet Capitol Tower, where Padmé is waiting.


	4. Accelerant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta'd.  
> Thank you to all the kind, verbose, and very engaged reviewers. It makes writing this story quite easy.

The building is imposing, looming down over him like a droid’s giant chromium godling. It makes him feel as though he doesn’t belong, but Anakin soldiers on in anyways. The halls are busy, the people lining them all glued to stacks of data pads, and some ever carrying flimsies. All are dressed far more ostentatiously than himself, which means that he sticks out like a sore thumb. With the smugglers and spacers, he’d fit right in. Now, the only thing that keeps him walking forward is knowing that the whole idea feels right in the same way that all things seem to feel right or wrong these days. It’s not just his blind spot for Padmé either. It’s more than that. He _knows_ it is.

Anakin walks aimlessly, hoping that no one will spare him a second glance. Miraculously, they don’t, and he’s not about to look a gift eopie in the mouth just to wonder why. Eventually, he finds himself in a turbolift and aimlessly punches in a floor level. The sensation is as odd now as it was the first time, which was admittedly less than a fortnight ago, so he forgives himself for not being used to the initial lurch which precedes the intense pneumatic whoosh as the lift rockets smoothly upwards at speeds that would concern him far less if there were controls in place which he could use should the necessity arise.

No such luck.

The lift stops in less time than it feels like it took to arrive, and when Anakin steps out, he finds an ornate waiting room, complete with a fruit bowl and silk draped walls. Behind a rich, lavishly carved wooden desk, he finds a dark haired human woman. Periwinkle eyes look up at him with bland curiosity.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

“Is this the office of…” He scans his memory. “Senator Bel Iblis?”

“Yes. How can I help you?”

 _Don’t push your luck._ “I’m actually here to see Senator Amidala’s aide, um, her name is Padmé. She’s an old friend. When I found out she was going to be here, I hadn’t yet heard where she was staying and I couldn’t reach her, so I figured I’d come here to make contact.”

So it’s not completely the truth, but neither is it _really_ a lie.

To her credit, the Senatorial Aide takes his odd request in stride, not a single lash batted. “I’ll…see what I can do, Mister…”

“Skywalker. Anakin Skywalker.” He looks down to the nameplate on the desk. “Thank you very much, Aide Midanyl. I know it’s highly irregular, but if there were any other way-“

“Yes, yes. Have a seat. It may be a moment before I can get the information you need. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course. Thank you so much.”

She smiles rather wanly and the heads to the adjoining door while Anakin resigns himself to the gaudy brocade couch. There’s a stack of holo-mags on the short caf table and he rifles through them for something on speeders to pass the time. He’s barely settled on one when he hears a mixture of muffled voices which grow clearer and clearer. The door swings open and he sees several people, but one pushes through.

“Anakin!”

Padmé’s voice is more beautiful than he imagines the Cathedral of the Winds on Vortex must sound on a particularly blustery day. “My goodness! It’s so wonderful to see you!”

Dumbfounded that Padmé would break her secret masquerade so easily, Anakin can only react belatedly to her gentle touch; slender hands land on his upper arms, and a blinding smile crescendos over her lovely, timeless features, leaving him utterly stunned.

“S-senator Amidala. I had no idea you would remember me,” he fumbles, attempting to save the faux-pa, but finds her resulting laughter just as melodious.

“Forgive me, Ani, I forgot that you never knew. You needn’t worry about keeping up any façades. You see,” she searches his gaze earnestly, as though asking him for his confidence. “I _am_ Senator Amidala.”

He must look utterly confused – and a complete fool – because one of the figures behind them coughs a little. “I-I…what?”

“Nevermind that right now, Ani.” With a flourish – though her hands do not rescind contact – she turns to her compatriots. “My apologies Garm, Fang, Sena. I’ve been terribly rude. This is my dear friend,” she looks briefly back at him once more, a soft look falling on austere features. “Anakin Skywalker, whom I’ve not seen in many years. It is to him that I partially owe the safety of my planet. He was responsible for helping get the parts necessary to fix my cruiser so that I could make it to Coruscant during the Federation blockade. Without him I have no doubt my people would have been slaughtered. He is the unsung hero of Naboo.”

Flushing furiously, Anakin finds himself little able to do more than stare, bewildered by her claims.

“Such illustrious company!” says the man Anakin vaguely recognizes as the Corellian senator. The man gives Anakin a sympathetic look. He can only assume its meant to assuage his embarrassment. Heedless of his discomfort, Padmé continues on.

“Anakin,” she says, holding out a leading hand. “This is my colleague, Senator Garm Bel Iblis, and Senator Fang Zar, of Sern. You’ve already met Aide Sena Leikvold Midanyl, of course.”

“My…” He searches for appropriate words for people so complete out of his league…among which Pad- _Amidala_ suddenly seems to number. “My greatest pleasure to meet you. I apologize for interrupting your business. It appears I’ve been rather…woefully misinformed.”

“Nonsense!” Bel Iblis says, projecting a kindly, understanding demeanor. “Senator Amidala has fooled many with her use of decoys in the past. Nothing to be ashamed of. And we were breaking for lunch anyways. Shall Fang and I presume that you will no longer be joining us, Padmé?”

“You presume correctly, Garm. Thank you for understanding. We shall continue this meeting tomorrow as planned?”

“Of course. Senator.” Bel Iblis inclines his head politely. “Mister Skywalker.”

“Senators, Aide Midanyl,” she responds in like, before turning back to Anakin to thread her arm around his elbow and striding towards the lift without giving him a proper chance to take his leave. From behind, he hears a few good-natured chuckles and decides that all involved understand that it is unwise to attempt to stop the petite senator once she’s chosen a direction and headed off towards it.

Once safely ensconced in the turbo lift, Anakin faces her head on. “What do you mean _Padmé_ _is_ Senator Amidala?”

Padmé blinks. “It means that I was never a handmaiden. I only pretended to be, so that I could see and do whatever I needed to without being constantly under surveil. It was safer to pretend as Queen, but as Senator I’ve found…” she trails off. “Until recently, I’ve found no reason to pretend to be anyone other than who I truly am. Publicly, my real name is still a matter of relative obscuration, but privately, most of my colleagues are familiar with it. Amidala was and always has been a ceremonial name. I’m sorry to have deceived you for so long, no matter how unintentionally. Really, how you knew me on Tatooine is who I really am. Just _what_ I was was a little different than what I led you to believe.”

It’s a lot to take in, but it’s also so perfectly her that Anakin feels it’s the truth. “There’s no need to apologize. Protecting yourself comes first. Always.” He can’t help though, but laugh to think about it. “You? A Queen? Making friends with me?” _A slave_ , goes unsaid, but despite his best intentions, the concept lingers between them, and it takes Padmé a hair longer than it should have to respond. But when she does, her tone is insistent.

“Is that so hard to believe? As Queen, was it not my imperative to listen to all equally?” There’s challenge in her eyes and Anakin cannot help but meet it.

Eyebrow raised playfully, he counters her attack. “I suppose that would depend on the type of monarchy you served.”

“Ani!” Despite the consternation in her tone, and the shocked expression on her face, her eyes are smiling as she plays along. “You’ve grown into a terrible tease. Not to mention an actual giant! Last time we saw one another, you were just a little boy. Now I hardly recognize you for the man you’ve become!”

He shakes his head, still embarrassed by her attentions. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Despite the regalia of her dress, she’s the mirror image of his pristine, golden memories, and he feels his heart soaring to see the fondness in her eyes. “You’re just as beautiful as I remember.” The words are out before he can think to censor himself, and mentally, he slaps his forehead for how ridiculous he sounds. She a _senator_ , and he’s… well, he doesn’t really know what he is anymore, but he knows with certainty that he can never compare.

A tremulous exhalation is the first response she gives, followed by a sharp blush and a duck of her head. The elaborate golden hairpiece doesn’t slide an inch. Whatever she’s feeling, he can’t tell, and he’s starting to get nervous when she looks back up suddenly, soft brown eyes open and brimming with unknown emotion. “I forgot how refreshing it is to be seen for me, and not for my station. I’ve missed you, Anakin. Truly. I’m so glad you’re here.”

To his dismay, he realizes that she’s distressed. “What is it, Padmé? What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, and her one smiling mouth presses into a worried line that reminds him of his mother. “The galaxy’s falling apart, Anakin. Even in my position, I feel so powerless. We’re doing what we can, keeping up the façade, but its all crumbled so quickly! For all the difficulties the Republic has had since the blockade, I never thought we were this far gone already.”

War. The word is mostly sour to him too, because it means death, and for Anakin, there is no greater injustice. Nal hadn’t seemed to mind too much, considering her profession, and to many others, the concept seems far off, unreal still. Mitigable. A handful of dissenters against the Galactic Republic? It would seem a folly, but anything that makes Padmé unhappy isn’t likely to be good. Even when he didn’t know she was a Queen, Anakin recalled her impassioned speeches, her predilection to speaking her mind, her stalwart ethics on a planet completely devoid of any structure that could be considered remotely moral in nature. Padmé has always been a paragon of goodness through and through, but also one of righteous indignation. Seeing her so downtrodden in the face of overwhelming conflict is disconcerting to say the least.

“Are things not progressing well with the…the war?” he asks, and she looks up at him sharply, as if surprised by the direction their conversation has taken, more from her words than his.

“To say the least. Many of thought this would be over by now. It appears that things had progressed much further than we were aware.” Padmé shakes her head. “But let’s not talk about that right now.” Even as she says it, the turbolift door opens. “I want to hear everything that’s passed since last we met.”

“Where are we going?”

“My temporary apartments. Where else?”

The visiting senatorial quarters are just as grand as they are clinical. For all their beauty, for all that Anakin’s never seen anything more lush and luxurious, there’s no warmth to them save what Padmé brings with her. It’s something Anakin’s noticed since leaving home. Space is cold, but even after such a short time with Nal and Qrere, it was clear that there was warmth to be found in their company. So many of the places he’s been since carry that same feeling, that it is the people who make a place worth being.

His heart has been cool since he left Tatooine, his path unpredictable, but with Padmé there beside him, it’s starting to warm a bit and finally the direction he must take is coalescing.

“Tell me everything, Ani,” Padmé says, pulling him down to sit with her on the sofa, holding his hand in her own and gazing intently.

But he doesn’t know what to say. What can he tell her, this powerful, beautiful woman who considers him friend and unwitting saviour of an entire planet? That he’d languished in slavery for nearly a decade after? That his mother is married? That he’s lost an am?

“Let’s go back to the bit where you were a Queen and I helped to save an entire planet.”

The redirect works, and for the next hour, he listens as Padmé explains everything that had happened in the interim, including the valiant and tragic death of Qui-Gon Jinn.

“Afterwords, when everything was finally settling back in, I sent off that package to you – Captain Panaka simply _wouldn’t_ have me off planet again so soon, or I’d have gone myself, but then there were the politics involved in the Gungan Peace Accord and-“

“Wait, wait, back up. What package?”

Padmé shakes her head. “What do you mean? The package I sent you.” Waiting, he simply stares and watches as the realization falls slowly over her features. “You mean you never got a package?”

“No.”

Instantly, her expression changes, and it takes him a moment to place it. She’s utterly stricken. “Ani…how did you get here?”

The question throws him, and it must show, but he answers anyways. “I got a job on a transport shuttle.”

“Yes, but... how were you able to leave?”

He knows what she’s asking now, doesn’t want to answer, but it’s evident that whatever was in the package would have meant such a question would have been obsolete. She’d never forgotten him. Somehow, despite the tragedy of it, he finds it endearing. She’d tried to help, in her naïveté, clung to the belief that any package sent to a slave would be delivered directly to him, much less would make it to Tatooine without being opened and absconded with by some nefarious individual.

To her credit, she doesn’t push him, waiting patiently for his answer.

“My mother got herself a boyfriend – husband now – and he was hells-bent on freeing me. So he did.”

It’s truncated to say the least, leaves out the fact that they’d had to trick Watto with Owen and a unique speeder part to do it, risky enough in the least, trying to cheat a Toydarian out of a slave. But it is the truth.

Maybe she won’t ask.

But she’s Padmé, so of course she does.

“How long?” the tremouring undercurrent of sick fear in her tone isn’t lost on him, and he almost rounds down, just to spare her. But he knows that she wouldn’t want him to. That’s why she always pretended to be a servant, he realizes in that moment. So that no one would treat her like she was too fragile to know the truth. And he’s not about to start now, no matter how much he would like to.

“Seven years.”

Biting her lip, she turns away from him physically, and he knows she’s holding back a sob.

“You don’t have to feel badly for me, Padmé.” Anyone else and he’d have been livid at the show of sympathy. “It is what it is and I’m free now. It’s in the past. Please, I’d like to leave it there.”

“Of course.” He counts it as the one and only time she’s ever come across as timid. The moment passes quickly, however, and she’s almost back to her usual self in a moment or two. “Tell me about your travels. When did you leave home?” she asks, eager as he is to move beyond the discomfort of their earlier topic.

So, he tells her. It’s not long or much, but he’s glad to share with her the wonders of everything he’s seen. She’s genuine in everything she says, every emotion she displays, and he finds himself surprised at how immensely grateful he is for her company. From the moment he saw her on the HoloNet screen, he knew he’d be happy, but being with her, here, now fills a hole he didn’t realize was there. Talking into the holojournal is something, but it’s far nicer to have the immediacy of her reactions to his stories, to have true and unquestionable companionship. To rely on someone else.

He’s not entirely sure what it is about her that inspires this reaction, but he doesn’t question it, just like he hasn’t questioned anything else. There’s no point in asking why things are, he’s discovered, at least, not things of the existential sort. Mechanical and electrical whys are a whole other story. There’s a duracrete answer to that, just as there’s a duracrete answer to why different atmospheres present different colour skies.

Why he’s twice met a Senator cum Queen by accident doesn’t bear asking.

They talk late into the night, Padmé filling him in on her life of the past few years, he in turn speaking about his new family members and life on the moisture farm, before the conversation finally turns to the seemingly inevitable war.

“It started on Geonosis, right?” he asks, and if it’s a little more obviously leading than he’d like, she’s kind enough not to point it out.

“Well, some would argue that it started on Naboo. Others might say it started on Coruscant well before the blockade ever happened. This war is nothing more than the result of a series of fractures that were never properly addressed in the Senate long ago and I for one think that the only place we can truly end it is through the political machine. It’s why I became a senator. It’s the only way I know how to help. I can’t just sit back and watch as democracy falls apart!”

For all that she is beautiful at her most poised and serene, she is radiant when impassioned, flames scalding her words with the golden light of truth. When Anakin recovers from the thought, he can only commiserate.

“That’s exactly why I left Tatooine. When all those Jedi died-“

“How did you know that?!” When turned on him, her ferocity is surprisingly no less alluring. “That hasn’t been made public yet. How did you know that!”

“I-I just… felt it happen. I felt them die.”

A myriad of emotions cross her features; surprise, confusion, distress, before eventually settling on concern. “You… _felt them die_?”

“Yes. I dreamt about it for weeks. There was nothing I could do to send a warning. I didn’t have the credits, much less the ability to get a message out. It was…it was _awful_.” There’s a wrenching sound marring the silence, and he realizes belatedly that it’s his own shuddering breathes. His mom, Cliegg, Owen, Beru, they all witnessed it, but they hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t had to. It’s the first time he’s given voice to how it felt, each life, a vibrant flame he’d never realized he could feel, snuffing out like a candle in the wind. One by one, ten by ten, till hundreds had died, leaving him feeling cold for the first time in his memory. And that was just the Jedi. “I felt them all. All two hundred and twelve of them.”

For just a moment, Padmé’s wary shock lingers. “Are you alright?” she asks, finally.

The problem is, Anakin doesn’t know.

“It’s not right!” he grounds out, clenching his fists, the cybernetic contracting powerfully into the cushion. “All that death! I knew it was going to happen and I was _useless. Useless!_ I should have been able to help them! I should have been able to stop it!”

A ginger touch finds his arm, and though the prosthetic has synthetic nerve receptors, it’s not the same. Doesn’t register on the same level as true skin to skin touch. “Anakin, this isn’t your fault. You can’t shoulder the weight of their deaths. No one expects you to.”

“Well I do!” All at once, it comes out in a rush. “Why was I given those dreams if I couldn’t prevent them? I saved my mother! Why couldn’t I save the Jedi? Why send me the dream if I’m powerless to prevent it?! I _hate_ being powerless!”

The tirade ends.

Breathing heavily, Anakin comes back to himself and looks down at a teary eyed Padmé. It’s only then he realizes he’s standing.

“That must be awful, Ani. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, just breathes, the flames of his fury suffocating in their cold heat, burning, burning, and he can _feel_ the supernova growing inside him once more.

_Control. Control._

Everything is about control. _You have one thing you can always control, and that’s yourself. You didn’t always have that and you do now, so_ exercise it!, he rebukes himself silently as he sinks back to the couch.

“I’m meant to help people. Mom always said that I was. I helped you, I helped her, and even though I couldn’t help those Jedi, I want to do what I can now. The problem is, I still don’t know how. When I saw you today, on the HoloNet screen, I just…” he hangs his head, running his hands through shaggy tresses.

A hand rests on his back, rubs soothingly. “I’m so glad that we’ve found each other again, Anakin. I don’t know what it’s like to physically feel the deaths of so many, but I do know what it’s like to feel helpless. I know what it’s like to watch them die. I was there, Anakin. On Geonosis. During the battle. I was there. I’m no Jedi, and…” There’s a moment of hesitation, but she picks up the thread all the same. “And neither are you, and so it’s unreasonable for us to expect that if Jedi couldn’t do anything to stop it even in their element, we could do more than they. The sooner this war is over, the sooner more people will have a chance to live. And those who died won’t have done so in vain. I won’t let that be their legacy, and neither, I think, will you.”

Brows drawn in, miserable, he glances at her, her expression set like stone in ferocious defiance. “How?”

“Join my security team. I’m often on the front lines. I find that I work best when I’m not being fed second hand information. I’m sure by now you understand that I’m used to getting what I want and doing it my way. If you work with my security team, you’ll be there right alongside me, looking for information, looking for a way to end this war, so that something like this never has to happen again.”

Without hesitation, he accepts.

Two days later, he’s on a Nabooian cruiser headed for Coruscant, dressed in the maroon uniform of a Senatorial security agent. It feels right, but somehow, Anakin gets the sense that he’s nothing more than a bolt of plasma, rocketing towards a pile of explosives set about the base of a high tower, and there’s nothing he can do but wait for the inevitable detonation and resultant fall.


	5. Sunburst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet another (unbeta'd) chapter churned out at rapid pace, much to my disbelief. A continual thank you to all my kind reviewers. 
> 
> This chapter is full to the brim with frankly /disgusting/ displays of affection. A little disclaimer. For one, Anakin is a person who feels everything deeply. He's a being of extremes. None of that is any different here than from canon. He's also a dramatic, hormonal teenage boy, and while most of them aren't quite as artfully verbose about it, I can say with experience that they are exactly that dramatic. I work with teens on a daily basis (when the schools aren't closed, that is). I know. I've heard it. It's disgusting. 
> 
> It's also immature, and in this case, mostly innocent. I like to think my dialogue is a bit better than AotC, which I still love despite its glaring flaws. Anyways, if you're as disgusted as I am by their sappy vows to one another, please do recall what it was like the first time you really fell for someone and try to convince yourself you weren't this disgusting and equally uninformed. He's got a lot of growing to do still, even if he's not got quite as far to go as he would had he grown up a jedi.
> 
> That being said, Ani being Ani, there will likely be more sap, but hopefully not quite so much in future chapters. I needed to firmly establish their relationship. It's not the sort of thing that's possible to cover in exposition and have be believable. 
> 
> Also, I'm just a die hard shipper, what can I say?

Working for Padmé is…hazardous. It doesn’t take Anakin long to discover this first hand. While she isn’t technically his direct superior, she seems to treat the situation as such, much to Gregar – that is _Captain_ Typho’s dismay. Even within a standard day’s cycle it is clear to Anakin that the head of the senatorial security forces is in love with his charge. In this, he and Typho are perfectly matched. It is practically impossible _not_ to be in love with Padmé, for all that she is headstrong and defiant, especially in the face of cool, rational suggestions about the safety of Her Excellency, the Senator’s Person.

The eternal flame in his heart aside, ever since signing up, Anakin’s been on the move constantly. So much so, that he’s barely even seen Coruscant save from the balcony of Padmé’s 500 Republica apartment. Considering her fame and general esteem among the Senate, it is often Padmé who is chosen – or who chooses – to go as ambassador to planets whose loyalties to the Republic are wavering and solidify their allegiances through diplomacy and legal avenues. The same brings her negative attention as well. The questionable legality of her mere presence on Geonosis is the equivalent to many of having been the impetus for the war, however erroneous the opinion is in truth. Equal parts of the Galaxy hate and revere her, and it falls to Anakin and the others that are part of her security team to keep her safe.

Easier said than done.

Unfortunately, the trip to Bri'ahl does not go according to plan. Running, breakneck, the Senator in front of him, it is moments like this when Anakin wishes most that he’d have brought R2-D2 with him, another welcome surprise upon reuniting with Padmé. But the feisty little droid isn’t anywhere near and so Anakin must make do on his own.

He sets his thoughts back into the present, Qui-Gon’s words haunting him, and continues to book it away from the cadre of rogue Clone Troopers who are shooting to kill, nothing more nothing less. The metal of the catwalk he’s ushered them up to echoes with the many footfalls, and the blaster bolts zing past them left and right. Padmé is lagging, and he puts a hand forward, presses gently as he can, considering, on her back.

“Move it!” he yells, twisting his torso to fire a round from his blaster back at them. One, two, go down.

Three left.

He turns back in time to see Padmé stumble, but catch herself and continue to move with everything she has left to her.

A split second later, there’s a punch to his arm and Anakin distantly feels something he might term pain, but he ignores it, firing back with his second blaster – Cliegg’s. He gets two of them, but the third misses and before he can fire again, the assailant trains a larger weapon towards the ceiling.

Before he even realizes he’s done it, Anakin moves.

Padmé is thrust roughly to the ground with a shout of surprised indignation. The force of the thrust carries his momentum and he falls on top of her, popping off one last shot behind him without looking, even as he can hear the ceiling cracking as it is blown to smithereens. Metal and fire reign down on them from above.

_Please don’t let her be hurt, please don’t let her be hurt, please don’t let her be hurt._

When the debris stops falling, Anakin heaves himself up, one handed. Curled up beneath him, Padmé opens one eye cautiously.

“Ani…”

“Shh. Stay down.”

“Ani…your arm.”

“Be quiet!” he begs with a whisper, senses still attuned.

With a huff, he throws a glance over his shoulder; none of the figures in white armor are moving, and he can’t _feel_ them like he would if they were alive. Relieved by the moment’s respite, he sits up, letting Padmé do so as well.

Debris lays all around them. He gives her a once over, before determining her sufficiently unhurt, and then makes his way over to the fallen traitors. It’s the work of a moment to relieve them of their helmets – not clones at all, but Bri’ahl anti-republic activists. The breath he holds expels slowly.

“They’re not clones,” he tells her. “It’s a setup. We need to get you back to the ship and off this planet, never mind President Vuul. This was an assassination attempt, and we don’t have the resources to protect you from a planet’s worth of angry rebels. Typho will have my head as it is.”

Really, he expects her to argue. He’s grown to expect it really.

She doesn’t. When he turns to see what’s wrong, she’s openly gaping at him.

“What is it?”

“Anakin…your _arm!_ ”

Only then does he look down to see that his cybernetic is no longer attached. Or, well, part of it is, but there’s nothing below the elbow. He shrugs it off – it’s just a prosthetic after all, worse things could have happened, and is about to say as much when he realizes that she doesn’t know. They’ve been reunited for a matter of months, and he’d never thought to tell her. It seems rather silly, considering, and he can’t quite keep the highly inappropriate smile of bemusement off his face.

“I’m alright, Padmé. Really. I promi-“

“How in the _Nine Corellian Hells_ is the fact that you’re _missing an arm_ somehow alright?!” Shock permeates her features, and he realizes that she’s starting to hyperventilate a little, so he throws down the white helmet he still holds and peels what’s left of his black glove off of the remainders of the elbow joint and lower bicep to reveal the still sparking mechanics.

“Because it's cybernetic, Padmé. I’m sorry, I never thought to tell you. It just…didn’t really come up.”

Utter relief overcomes her, and he can tell the adrenaline is beginning to wear off because she sinks back to the ground slowly, chest heaving in slow deep breaths. “Thank goodness. Oh, thank _goodness_.”

Anakin looks at the pile of bodies disgustedly before heading back to Padmé. She needs him, and there’s nothing more to be done or discovered by standing around like a deaf and blind Gundark.

“You alright?” he asks, kneeling beside her.

“Yes. Yes, I’m alright. You just gave me quite a scare. I think you’re right. We’d best head back to the ship, but we will contact President Vuul first. He has to be warned.”

With a wry smile, Anakin holds up the busted remnants of his comm unit, and then gestures with it to hers, bent at a crude angle, though it still clings to her belt. “I think we’ll be comming him from the ship, Senator. Even I’m not _that_ good with electronics.”

“Oh.” She hefts a sigh. “I guess it’s back to the ship then.”

Dropping the destroyed comm, Anakin offers her his hand and pulls them both to standing. She’s a little wobbly – the adrenaline, still, he’s sure – and falls into his chest. But what surprises him is that she just stays there, breathing quietly. A spark misfires from the ceiling above, but beyond that there’s not a sound to be heard.

Having her this close, and not in the heat of battle is…

Anakin tries to ground his thoughts. They really should get moving. More rebels could arrive at any moment. But ever so slowly, her arms snake up and around his neck, and he can’t help but bring his arm around her waist in turn. Holding her is bliss. But bliss isn’t a big enough word to circumscribe all of the feelings he attributes to her presence beside him.

“Oh, Anakin, I was so afraid for you.”

Beneath his chin, he can feel the silken shift of her hair as she pulls back just a little to gaze up at him.

Whatever she sees, he can’t believe it’s exactly flattering. He’s hot and sweaty and covered in grime, hair singed, by the scent of it, but her eyes are wide and warm and her lower lip trembles. For all her mussed hair and equally dirtied clothing, Padmé is as beautiful as ever.

His traitorous tongue is about to translate thought into words, but he’s saved when she presses up on tiptoes, inclines her head, and-and-and-

\- kisses him.

Innumerable times he’s imagined what it would be like to even just touch her lips with the sparest touch. Like petals. She’s just like petals. Delicate and beautiful, but hardy and restorative. Her kiss is life and breath. Her kiss fills his very soul. He’s _drowning_ in her. The arms that hang about his neck move within the same moments, one hand threading into his hair, the other, palm flat on his cheek, both pulling him down and into the kiss, which she deepens almost frantically now, as languid as the first press was. Spurred on by her urging, he presses his remaining hand into the small of her back to support her as she bends beneath him, he arching to meet her.

Time is meaningless in her embrace. He could live and die a thousand, hundred times, just like this, in this exact moment forever. To hold her is to live. To kiss her is to die and be reborn.

All these thoughts reasonably, however, take little more than half a standard minute, at most, before they break reluctantly apart, breathing heavily for a completely different reason than before.

The thoughts that follow, follow more quickly:

First, how badly he wants to kiss her again.

Second, how incredibly bad their timing is.

Thirdly, how grateful he is that he was too busy to articulate aloud any of the utterly embarrassing thoughts he’d had while kissing her.

And last, quietly in the depth of himself, how for the first time in his memory, he truly feels at peace.

“We have to get out of here,” Padmé says, as if remembering herself, and Anakin only nods.

“This way.”

Typho is, as predicted, ready to take off Anakin’s head. It’s probably only the loss of his arm that saves him a more thorough verbal berating and the Captain leaves off with a slap to the back and a ‘you did good out there today, kid’. All in all, it could have been worse, and while Padmé is debriefing with her fellow senators about the situation on planet, Anakin busies himself with ordering a new prosthesis. He’s been given leave to use the security’s medical fund, and was instructed by Padmé, in no uncertain terms, to spare no expense.

“I need you fully functioning if you’re to protect me to the best of your ability,” she’d said, matter-of-factly, as if they hadn’t just spent an eternity in passionate, yet chaste embrace. “You know mechanics and you know yourself. I trust you to choose something appropriate.”

So while he scrolls through specs on various cybernetic options, he considers everything that he had to set aside back on the catwalk. Pensive, he almost misses it when Artoo chirps irritatedly at him.

“What is it, buddy?”

More whistles.

“Is that so?” Anakin arches his brow at the little astromech’s impertinence, privately glad that he’s the only one in the Senator’s retinue who understands binary, or the whole lot of them would be privy to every confidence he’s ever imparted to Artoo. Not that Artoo understands the word ‘privacy’ apparently.

A sound of affirmation.

“Well I thank you for your advice, but I think I can handle myself when it comes to…to…’ _female affection’_? Really, is that the best you’ve got, Artoo?”

Amused trills whir from Artoo’s processor.

“Oh go plug in why don’t you and let me be.”

A toot and whistle-trill of dismissal later, Artoo plugs in to recharge and shuts down, leaving Anakin with his thoughts.

The droid – and isn’t that the real kicker; getting love advice from a droid – for all his insolence, isn’t exactly wrong.

For as much and as strongly as Anakin’s grown to feel…has always felt?...something…for Padmé, he’s never before broached the concept of love. He knows that ever since they first met, he’d held affection for her, in the way that any little boy might with his first crush. He remembers how Amee was so upset when he rebuffed her, back before Cliegg had freed him. He’d been too preoccupied with other things to even think about the girl romantically. Owen has Beru – probably, Anakin thinks, the best representation of a relationship he’d had for someone of his own age. They were sweet, and so what if he’d wrinkled his nose at Owen’s dazed way of gazing at Beru. That’s what, so he’d been told, brothers were for. Then there was, of course, his mother and Cliegg, whose affection bloomed beautifully into love, a sort of tenderness between them that Anakin had never before hoped he might find for himself. For as small and contained as his life had been up until he left Tatooine, the expectations his mother and Qui-Gon so often repeated, the volatility within himself, always precluded any hopes Anakin might have had for a normal, simple life.

Padmé changes things.

Later, when he changes con shifts with one of the other security team and slips into his private quarters, Anakin pulls out the holojournal.

“Hey, Mom!” Too late, he goes to wave, like always, forgetting the ruined arm, pulls it down rapidly with a grimace. But he can’t bring himself to lie to her. “Whoops. Yeah, about that. I’m fine, I promise! But I’m getting an upgrade! Pretty wizard, huh? Padmé’s fine.” Oh and if he knows his mother, he knows she’ll catch _that_ slip too! “Actually, it’s Padmé I want to talk to you about. How… how did you know that Cliegg was the one? Oh gosh, please promise me you’re not showing this to the whole family – if you are, Owen, you’d better not make fun of me. Please mom? Just us?” He waits a requisite pause. “Anyway, once I was sure that Padmé was alright, after…after… well, just _after_ , you know? Well, she hugged me, and that was great, but then she kissed me! She kissed me, Mom! She’s…she’s…there aren’t words for how she makes me feel, Mom. And I can’t help but _know_ that I will never feel this way about anyone else. Ever. I don’t know how I know it. I just do. But I don’t know _anything_ about women. I mean, I know about _you_ , but that’s different. And Padmé is…well she’s Padmé! She deserves…” His words fall away into a sigh. “More than I can give her.”

“Anyway, I’m sending this one off to you. Now that I’ve got a reliable job, I’m going to buy another holojournal and a whole supply of data chips so that we can send them back and forth and both still be able to view and record. I’m also including the address of the Senatorial barracks so that you can try to send things to me. I won’t promise that I’ll get them right away – I never know exactly where we’re headed next, and I haven’t really been planet bound in a month – but I will get them. And I will reply.”

He smiles, thinking of her. “I love you, Mom.”

When he shuts off the holojournal, he feels unburdened in a way that even speaking to Artoo can’t compare. And for all he is a droid, Artoo is probably Anakin’s best friend in the whole world.

For the second time since being hired by the RNSF, Anakin finds himself on the planet Coruscant. It is an interminable city – the word for this is ecumenopolis, he’s told – 5,127 levels deep, with a core as rotten as month old shuura fruit. For all its sparkling façade, it’s a cold, unemotional city of business and politics, neither of which Anakin finds particular interest in, save for Padmé’s sake, of course. He doesn’t know – and doesn’t _need_ to know – the ins and outs of the bureaucratic machine that runs the grandly touted City of Spires, and is all too glad that his first full day on the planet, after sending off the package to his mother, he is left in a medibay to await the arrival of his new arm and have the remnants of his old one removed.

The second bit happens quite quickly. The first bit, not so much, and he’s sent back to the senatorial quarters with a delay notice telling him to come back tomorrow for the nerve synch procedure that will attach the prosthetic properly. Such is how Padmé and Typho find him when they return from a day’s senate session. He’s restless, having checked the apartment over several times, securing it completely against any possible nefariousness. After a quick update with Typho, the Captain takes his evening leave, and Anakin and Padmé are alone for the first time since the debacle on Bri’ahl.

Whenever he looks over at her, he catches her looking at him, and they’re both as quick to turn away. There’s little to do and Anakin feels the high collar of the navy blue under tunic starting to choke. He clears his throat and settles on a chair by the desk at the entryway, which is technically his official position when on duty, and pulls up some miscellaneous files on his datapad.

He’s just found an article about underground swoop racing, when delicate hands slide down over his shoulders, and his breath hitches.

“Ani. Come sit with me. Please.”

He does as she asks. He’d be a fool not to.

Maybe, a small part of him whispers, he’s just as much a fool for doing it anyways.

They make it halfway to the sofa, side by side, the barest hint of caress between them as their arms swing. He steps aside to allow her passage past the furniture, and as she makes to do so, she turns, fixes him solidly with her stare, puts a hand to his cheek and surges up into a kiss more markedly passionate than the last.

Just as before, it leaves Anakin breathless.

Still on tiptoes to reach him, Padmé lingers a moment, their noses just brushing, before setting back down. She grabs his hand, tugs him along in a direction he hadn’t anticipated, but says nothing. Words would shatter the porcelain perfection of the moment.

In the sparse yet tastefully decadent bedroom, Padmé leads him to sit down on the bed, which he does without question, staring up at her in dumb awe. For a moment, she hovers, indecisive, and then sits down on the mattress beside him, taking his hand in hers again, rubbing the soft pads of her fingertip between his knuckles and over the back of his hand, memorizing the skin there. It’s soothing, and Anakin closes his eyes as she turns his hand over, performing the same thoughtful ministrations to his palm. After a while, her fingers drift lower and suddenly stop.

“This is beautiful.” Voice crystalline, Padmé breaks the silence.

He looks down to see her fingers trailing over the tiny blue birds on his wrist. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

“Ani, I…”

But kisses don’t require words. Pulling his hand from hers, he lifts her chin, leans over and places a simple kiss to the corner of her mouth. For all the passion conveyed in the previous two, he wants this one to showcase something just as important. It doesn’t linger, it isn’t firm, but he puts everything he can into it.

Ducking her head as he releases her, a soft sigh escapes, and Padmé’s lashes flutter delicate shadows over the apples of her downturned cheeks. Perhaps she takes his meaning. He hopes she does. The wait for something - _anything -_ to happen has almost become unbearable when she’s suddenly moved, reaching across his broad shoulders to grip him by the uniform and haul him down atop her as she falls back on the bed. Really, for as good as he is at predicting things, for as quick of reflexes as he’s honed over the years, every single time she’s done this, it catches him completely off guard. Off balance without the other arm to break the fall, he rolls his weight so as not to collapse on top of her, and lands beside her instead and they roll to meet one other, looking eye to eye on the same level for the first time since… _this_ began.

“Hi.” Her usually strong voice is little more than the whips of a breath.

“Hi.” He’s not any better, though, really.

“Ani-“she starts, but this time, he’s beaten her to the punch, though he doesn’t mean to. It’s thoughts really, but around her, he can’t trust his tongue to keep his thoughts to himself.

“I’m in love with you,” is what comes out, stifling whatever train of thought on which she was about to embark.

Perfect, soft lips round into an almost comical ‘o’, but there’s nothing comical about the immensity of what Anakin feels brewing in his heart, and his face goes embarrassingly flush. Padmé just blinks, and says;

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Suddenly, like children, they’re both giggling, mostly from relief, at least on Anakin’s side of things – he can’t speak for her. The moment should be awkward; it’s the sort of conspiratorial laughter he’d engaged in as a child making trouble with Kitster, but different – _vastly_ different.

“Oh, thank goodness,” is the only bright thing that comes to mind to say, and then they’re giggling again. It’s strange though, how when the moment goes quiet, the mood changes completely, gone from playful to devastatingly serious.

Padmé bites her lip. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s a bad idea to have you on my security team.”

His first thought is to argue. His second is to agree. He reaches up to brush a loose curl away from her face. “If anything were to ever happen to you…I don’t know what I’d do.”

“That’s my concern.” Padmé says. “And the same is true in reverse. When I saw your arm…” Roughly, she shakes herself out of it. “But Anakin if I did get hurt, I do have you. And Captain Typho. And my Ladies. And I’d know that all of you would do everything in your power to make sure I was safe.” Her soft warm eyes suddenly go hard. “Anakin. Anakin, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything. Anything, Padmé.” The sincerely in his own voice frightens him a little. 

Sitting up a bit, she levels her stare. “Anakin, if anything ever should happen, I need you to promise me that you’ll remember that it’s not your fault. If you’re there, beside me and I’m still hurt, it will be because no other outcome was possible. Do you hear me? You’ll not shoulder blame for things outside your ability to prevent. I won’t have it. I abhor how much pressure you put on yourself. You’re one man, doing what you can. And that’s all anyone can ever ask of you.” She pauses, but not long enough for him to get a word in edgewise. “Including yourself.”

“Does that mean I’m not fired?” At first she looks a little scandalized that he would dare to joke in the middle of such a serious conversation, but he only half means it in jest. “Really, I’d like to know. I don’t…I don’t like the idea of _not_ being a part of your security team, but at the same time…” His thoughts drift to the way that Typho watches Padmé when she’s not looking. The Captain has always managed to do his job efficiently, but when Anakin thinks about the way he’d felt when he thought she may have been hurt, he’s not sure he can do the same. Which irks him, to say the least, but then, hadn’t he _just_ got done promising Padmé that he’d do anything for her? Well, maybe it wasn’t phrased _exactly_ that way, but it is what he’d meant.

“At the same time, it might not do us any favours.” Padmé sighs. “And here you’d started to really settle in. Oh, Ani I don’t want to fire you.”

“Do you want me to quit? Because I’ll quit, if that’s what you want.” But she’d have to want it, or he’s not sure he could.

“I’ll think about it. I don’t want to make any decisions right now. Right now, I just want to focus on _us_.” There’s something predatory in her words that should tip him off, but it doesn’t. She disarms him completely it seems. In a single fluid movement, she’s rolled him to his back and swung up to straddle his waist.

Rose-gold, the glow of dusk illuminates her from behind, a halo of light to compliment the radiance of her beauty, leaving him speechless. Dark chocolate curls spill over her shoulders as she leans down to press a kiss to his temple. When he closes his eyes, just for a moment, she lays kisses there too, and then again to his lips, each one more languid and gentle than the last.

Anakin wants, more than anything, to put his arms around her, to pull her down and into the safety of his embrace, but he can’t, and he curses the delay on his new arm.

“Padmé, as much as…as nice all this is, do you think we can just…lay here a bit?”

“Too much?” she asks, and he’s suddenly aware of the nervousness on her features. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done-“

“Me neither,” he’s quick to respond, relieved at her half confession. “But that’s not really what I meant. I just-“ He holds up the stump of his arm. “It will be a lot more satisfying to hold you when I’ve got two arms. Sorry.”

Relief colours her features too, which are pink from embarrassment as much as anything else. “Of course. No need to apologize. I am just as content to simply lay here with you.” And she does, slipping off his lap and back onto the mattress, though she places her head on his chest. “This way, I can hear your heartbeat.”

It’s been so quiet for so long, that Anakin thinks she’s fallen asleep when, in a soft voice, Padmé asks. “Anakin?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were on the catwalk, and you sheltered me…When it was over, I looked, and there were metal hunks and twisted wires and all manner of debris around us. But there wasn’t anything on you. Or on me. Like…like there was an energy shield around us. But I know you didn’t have a portable one. Anakin…how-?”

The happy wellspring in Anakin’s chest dams up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What were you thinking, Anakin, while we were lying there, as that roof came down? What were you thinking?”

_Please don’t let her be hurt, please don’t let her be hurt, please don’t let her be hurt._

She shifts a little when he stiffens, uncomfortable with the insinuation. “You think I-“

“Qui-Gon…he wanted to make you a Jedi, didn’t he?”

“I guess.”

“Ani,” she says, her voice pregnant with anticipation, as Anakin works to stop himself from shivering with dread. “What do you know about The _Force_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Typho was very much in love with Padme. It's actually canon. Poor dude tried to kill Darth Vader to avenge her death.  
> 2\. The situation on Bri'ahl is adjusted and reskinned from canon adjacent comics to fit my needs.  
> 3\. For anyone interested, I dug out and posted the first of the Galactic Guides I wrote some years ago, "Everything you (N)ever Wanted To Know About Coruscant" : https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315059


	6. Tsunami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a plan for this, and I got about halfway through and then stuff just started happening and I went with it. *shrug* Those of you who were hoping for more Force stuff, I hope you like it. As I continue to reread Rogue Planet, things keep falling perfectly into place. 
> 
> Thank you to all of my reviewers. You're the best.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

_“What do you know about The Force?”_

And isn’t that just the question. Really, the answer is a flat ‘nothing’. What little Anakin does know was passed to him from Qui-Gon, though he lacks the real foundation he’s sure is necessary to understand. The bigger problem is that he’s not sure he _wants_ to understand. The experience in the Dune Sea has left him more than a little wary of the abilities so supposedly ingrained in him, and Padmé’s suggestion that he’s been using The Force subconsciously sets him on edge.

What if he did something with drastic consequences unintentionally? What if he hurt people?

Not that there was precedent for that, but the previous experiences he’d had when tapping too deeply left him nervous all the same.

Padmé suggests to him that while they were on Coruscant, he should visit the Jedi Temple, get some guidance. _It can’t hurt, right?_ she asks him. Even the next day, he’s not positive that it won’t. Usually, things are so brightly clear. He just _knows_ when things are right, wrong, meant to be. Like with Padmé, though he refrains from telling her as much. Everything is muddled and it makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it’s Coruscant, with its massive populous, maybe it’s him, maybe it’s something else entirely. Regardless, he doesn’t like it.

He thinks it over while the meditechs work on incorporating the synthnerves into his real ones, the occasional twinge barely causing him to flinch. Other things are more important. Like the fact that he is, for the moment, jobless. Not that having a job is really that big of a deal to him. More than anything, Anakin just wants to help, and for a time that was in protecting Padmé, but when they’d talked it over that morning, they’d both come to the same unfortunate conclusion. Neither of them likes it, he knows, and that in itself is reassuring, but it's probably for the best. Though, where that leaves their burgeoning relationship, he’s not exactly sure. The fact that she’d mentioned going on furlough to Naboo so he could meet her family bodes well. He’ll have time to be nervous about that later.

The rudimentary understanding that Anakin has of what the Jedi are is only a little more substantial than his understanding of the Force. Knights – honourable, stoic sentients – who stand up for peace and justice in the galaxy. Once, he’d thought they would free all the slaves in the galaxy, starting with Tatooine. He knows better now. At least Qui-Gon had tried. It was Padmé who explained their role in the Republic, the checks and balances placed on them, despite the fact that they were considered a separate body altogether. The particulars are still a little hazy, but he doesn’t need them to understand that the Order’s effectiveness is limited by their resources and mandates.

Even the Jedi are not enough to wipe out slavery.

Considering the seriousness with which Padmé says they guard their secrets, Anakin’s skeptical that they’ll let him in at all if he bothers to try, but by the time the meditechs are satisfied with the incorporation of cybernetics with flesh, and he’s been run through the gauntlet on reflex and sensation testing, he’s made up his mind to at least give it a shot.

He’s still pulling on his glove when he strides out of the building. Speeders, swoops, and civilian transports build a veritable hum of activity, the song of their repulsor engines as beautiful to him the sound of his mother’s admittedly off key humming. There’s one civilian transport docked on the same platform, and Anakin hustles to get there in time, dropping a few credits into the slot before swinging up the steps. He grabs a handhold as the transport surges forward, watching the interior sign change as he gets farther and farther away from the medicenter and nearer the strange ziggurat that is the Jedi Temple. Padmé had pointed it out to him that morning. Visible from her veranda, the spectacular spires of the structure were clear against the skyline, undisguised by pollution or other buildings. It stood out, a shining beacon, and he knows that even if he hadn’t been able to see it, he would have felt it.

Hundreds of flames, brighter than the rest, glow within.

He gets off not too far away. Like everything else on Coruscant, the building is impossibly large and imposing. It makes him laugh to think how small he’d felt on Corellia now that he is here. What’s different, of course, is the lack of anything within a wide radius surrounding it. All other buildings pale in comparison to its ancient edifice. The Temple court isn’t empty, though. Bronzium statues dot the open yard. In their metal magnificence they watch him, impassively staring down their judgement. The promenade leads towards a grand entryway, innumerable steep steps leading to even more impossibly large statues of Warriors and Sages, standing at attention, the guardians of knowledge.

With each step, Anakin feels heavier, not lighter.

Beyond these first four enormous statues, cold stone monoliths rise up, the pylons bearing reliefs of further figures of unknown significance, and beyond that, more stairs yet. For anyone arriving in such a way, the message is clear.

_We’ve stood for a millennia, we’ll stand for a millennia more._

Through this, Anakin sees light stream in blinding slats, whorls of dust floating in monastic peace within. From the very foundations, a great calm surges up through the floor. But this entrance, he knows, is not for him. He turns to the left, following along the surrounding veranda towards the north side public entrance of which Padmé had informed him that morning. It takes just about as much walking to get there as it did to get across the court and up the steps.

When he enters, the same surge of archaic calm twists up his body. Even in this space (much smaller, he gathers, than the main entryway) opens into a cavernous hall, marble carved and echoing with the gentle footsteps of those within. Tranquility is inherent in the location. It seeps into him, tangling with the bright pulse in his chest.

A young child, a Mon Calamari girl, no more than maybe twelve, blinks wide silver eyes up at him. In natural stripes along her forehead, gradient silver dissolves into the natural salmon of her skin tone. From behind her ear, a braided, beaded cord hangs down, brushing just above her shoulder.

“Welcome to the Temple. I am Padawan Kieelek Drins Isre. How may I be of service today?”

There are other…padawans, he supposes, by the various braids which hang over their shoulders, all in mirror like, and wearing similar robes of cream and light brown. At first, he thinks that Padawan Isre is the only one paying him any mind. And why should the others? It really only takes one sentient to aid another, but from his peripherals, Anakin can sense that each and every one of them is watching him, however furtively.

“I am Anakin Skywalker. I was told by my employer, Senator Amidala that I should come here. She told me that I should ask for a, um, Master Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

It may be nothing more than a trick of the light, but it almost seems as though Padawan Isre’s eyes light up for a moment.

“Let me check for you.” Businesslike, she sets to her datapad before shaking her head. “I’m sorry. Master Kenobi is unavailable at the moment. You work for a senator, you said? If the business you have is senate related, your employer will have to take it up with the Council of Reconciliation, as always.”

“No, it’s…it’s personal. I-“ Even the ancient calm imbued in the stone cannot keep Anakin from feeling uncomfortable. Which is odd, since he finds that he feels completely and utterly at ease in a way he never has before. Almost like…coming home. “I knew Master Qui-Gon Jinn. He tried to bring me here once, long ago.” The words don’t come easily. “I need guidance. Master Kenobi was his apprentice, that’s why I asked. I don’t know…” he trails away, uncertain once more. “I don’t know.”

The youngest of the padawans are no longer disguising their interest in him, staring openly now.

The little Mon Calamari girl’s expression wavers. “One moment please,” she says before disappearing into a small room adjacent.

In lieu of fidgeting, Anakin rolls his shoulders back several times. The padawans' eyes bore into him, tiny lasers creating cracks in his façade. He closes his eyes, trying to escape.

A sigh. Gentle. Maybe a breeze. It caresses his face.

_A n a k i n . . ._

Breathing. Breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

_A n a k i n . . ._

The hundreds of flaming presences flicker in his wake. The air grows thick. Heavy. He can’t breathe.

_A n a k i n . . ._

Shivering, he opens his eyes. All the padawans are watching him now, all curiosity faded to something different. Something more urgent.

The gentle sigh grows until it’s no longer one sigh, but a billion, until it’s every simultaneous breath on the planet, a wave, rising, building, growing, rushing towards him. Around him, the flickering flames surge all at once, and more potent than the eyes of the children, he can feel…

Minds. They’re minds.

And their focus is on him.

There is curiosity. Intrigue. A spike or ten of concern.

The wave swells to impossible height, the last few coalescing with the whole, and Anakin is held still to the marble floors by those questing tendrils of unnatural calm, unable to move. Fear fights to build, but can’t. His emotions are muted, smothered, a scream wishing to tear from a voiceless throat as the wake breaks over him, submerging him completely.

Panic creeps through. His eyes fling wide open – when did he close them again? Were they closed, or was he just…not seeing? With effort, he takes one step back. Then two. Then three. The padawans are too stunned to say anything in protest. Only when he reaches the exterior step is he finally released. Out from under the pressure of their stares, Anakin breaks and runs full steam away. In the back of his mind, he can’t help but berate himself for being irreverent in a place that seems so important, but the overwhelming sensations lessen the further away he gets, so he doesn’t stop, taking the steps two at a time as he vaults down and then across the promenade, away from the Temple Ziggurat. In his mind, the voice echoes, still.

_A n a k i n . . ._

_A n a k i n . . ._

_A n a k i n . . ._

Only when he’s beyond the Temple grounds threshold can he properly breath again.

“You alright, friend?” A passing Trandoshan asks, but Anakin doesn’t stop moving, heads aimlessly away from the staring, suffocating silhouette of the Jedi Temple. He doesn’t recall finding his way onto another civilian transport. Doesn’t remember dropping the credits in the slot, or collapsing into an empty seat near the back. Or falling asleep.

He doesn’t remember any of that, but when he next _thinks_ consciously, he knows that he’s dreaming, because across from him, wreathed in blue light, sits Qui-Gon Jinn.

“Hello Ani,” he says, voice a perfect replication of Anakin’s memories. “Don’t worry. Have no fear. What you experienced was overwhelming. But it will not harm you. The Force will _never_ harm _you_.”

“Then why does it feel like it will?”

“The Force…” The deceased Jedi stops, his brow wrinkling. “Anakin, it is very important that you come to understand this. You are closer to the Force than any other being alive. It sings in your very cells. You are vibrant with life in the Force. You are a beacon, a guiding light, and like moths to a flame, all other beings who are alive in the Force will sense you, will be drawn to you. Had you been able to come with me as a child, things would be different. You would have learned to temper your connection, to shield yourself from others, and they from you. You are vulnerable as you are, Anakin.”

“I’ve tried to Reach Within! I have!” Discouragement falls over him in a gloom. “It didn’t work.”

“Didn’t it?” Qui-Gon’s brow tweaks, and Anakin almost senses amusement.

“I didn’t feel peaceful or centered.”

There. A twinkle in his eye. “Ah, but did you learn anything from the experiences?”

“Yes. About…” Anakin’s loath to say it. “ _Control_.”

“Good. Listen to the Force, Anakin, even when you don’t like what it has to say. Most importantly then. You must learn balance, young one, and you will not find it at the Temple.”

Anakin saves his surprise for later. “What was that, back there? That wave?”

Qui-Gon strokes his beard thoughtfully, though Anakin is positive that the Jedi already knows the answer. “What do you know of potentiality, Anakin?”

“The science of it? Or the theory? There’s a degree of understanding required to chart Hyperspace lanes, because of the possibility that new astrogeography might be created between the current and previous uses of any given route. That’s why we astronavigate with navicomputers. If we didn’t, we’d fly right into suns or asteroid fields.”

“Very good, young one. Now. Imagine that every choice you make is a new astrogeographic location. Some things are meant to be. You understand that quite well, I think, don’t you Anakin?”

Slowly, Anakin nods. “Things just…feel right.”

“Sometimes, there are moments where the choice is not predetermined. Sometimes, those choices have a great bearing on those who are caught in their wake.”

Instantly, Anakin understands. “The wave was a choice. A big one”

“Yes, in no uncertain terms. You perceived this alteration of path as a wave. Others perceive them as fault lines. Divergent cracks in the trajectory of the universe. They are called Shatterpoints.”

The information sinks in, settles around them. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Right and wrong in such situations is undeterminable.” Qui-Gon’s expression is without judgement, and Anakin relaxes into it. “There is only the path before you. Good decisions and bad, however, are another story. In this case, I do not think that either choice was inherently better or worse than the other. Your visit to the Temple was necessary as a catalyst to our speaking now. Without it, you might still be unreachable. I have tried before, to obvious results. But now, you are open. And with that openness you are even more vulnerable than before.”

“Vulnerable? To what?”

“Influence.”

The word rings ominously in the crystalline milieu.

Qui-Gon sighs. “I will do what I can.” _To protect you_. It goes unsaid, but Anakin hears it anyways, wondering exactly what influences might bear needing protection from. “Once, I swore to be your teacher. Would you accept me as guide and master?”

The word is normally bitter to Anakin’s ears, but there is no imperiousness to its cadence. “Yes.”

“You consent to being my Padawan, as unique of a situation as this is?”

“Sure. Uh, yes.” _Student_ , Anakin understands. _Padawan._ “I’m not even sure this is really happening right now, but yes.”

Qui-Gon smiles then, even if it does not reach his eyes. “What do your feelings tell you?”

“Yes. It’s real. Somehow.”

“Then it is real. Now, wake up, Ani, or you’ll miss your stop.”

With a gasp and a lurch, Anakin shoots up, the flesh of his cheek peeling from the transperisteel window in quick agony. There, out the front windshield, the Senate Apartments loom.

Before leaving Coruscant, Padmé attends a few meetings to wrap up loose ends before she insists that they retire to Naboo, with emphasis on _they._ Technically, Anakin’s not unemployed until they reach her home planet, so he’s still taking shifts. Twice, over the next day and a half he receives a comm call coded from the Temple District, which he doesn’t answer. Once, Typho receives the call while Anakin’s off duty, and he’s informed later that Master of the Order, Jedi Master Mace Windu, has requested to speak with him.

Though he takes the message and the – private! – comm number, Anakin has no intention of answering it yet. Not at least until he’s off planet and maybe not even then. Coruscant is still too muddled for him to make good sense of everything that’s happened. Really, he’s looking forward to meeting Padmé’s family. Anything is less stressful than what’s all happened to him in the space of the last two days.

They’re packed and almost ready to go, Anakin finalizing closing security on the apartments, when Dormé enters behind him with a discreet cough. “Lieutenant Skywalker?”

Half a second before she’s finished uttering his name, Anakin feels the presence. “Someone’s here to see me, right?”

“Yes. Jedi Master Mace Windu.”

Typho looks up abruptly at the name. “Go. I’ll finish up here.”

The man who greets him is simultaneously the exact and last thing Anakin expects. The Korun master is taller than him, if only a little, with a naturally stern face despite the serene nature of his expression. He wears similar robes to the padawans from the day before, though they’re a little darker. For all the Jedi seem an ascetic order, this Master of the Order looks at home where he stands in the entryway of the apartments.

“-ster Windu, this is a pleasure unlooked for.” It is Padmé speaking. She must have entered the main area and found him unattended. Anakin can tell that the Jedi knows he is there, but he waits politely for Padmé to finish speaking. “I’m afraid we’re set to leave in half a standard hour, but I’m sure that can be rearranged to accommodate whatever business we may need to conduct.”

“I am not here to conduct business with you, Senator. Rather, one of your employees.”

To her credit, Padmé barely lifts a brow. “Of course, Master Windu.” Anakin told her a little of his experience at the Temple last night, and when she’d asked what he planned to do about it, the only answer he’d given was ‘think’.

“Master Windu,” Anakin announces himself then, however reluctantly. Padmé disguises her surprise well; she hadn’t noticed him arrive. “You’ve asked to see me, Sir?”

Windu’s face is impassive as he looks Anakin over. The Korun Master’s gaze is piercing, as though he can see right through Anakin, who fights the childish urge to squirm. Instead, he focuses on the soothing whisper of Qui-Gon’s voice, still little more than a fading dream, and centers himself.

“You’re Skywalker?” There’s no emotion in the question, good or bad. It just _is_.

“Yes. I’m Anakin Skywalker.”

“May we speak in private.”

It’s not a question, and with a quick glance to Padmé, who looks back at Anakin with the slightest hint of worry, she disappears to her own quarters, leaving the two in what passes for privacy.

“You came to the Temple yesterday.” There’s a pause, but instinctively, Anakin knows better than to fill it. “Padawan Isre informed us that you asked to speak with Master Kenobi, on matters of-“ Another pause. “ _Guidance_. When he wasn’t available, you mentioned Master Qui-Gon Jinn. Are you aware that Master Jinn is dead?”

“Yes, s-Master,” he’s quick to correct his slip.

“And it was Senator Amidala who encouraged you to come to the Temple?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet Master Jinn?”

“When he came with the then Queen Amidala to Tatooine. He needed parts for the ship. I helped him get them, so that they could come here.”

A brow lifts. It’s the most expression he’s gotten from the stoic man.

“I see. You indicated that Qui-Gon tried to bring you to the Temple. Do you know why?”

“He told me the Force was with me.”

“Hmm.” Windu strides to the window, his back to Anakin, who manages not to sigh in relief. “I remember his report on your discovery. He was unable to return with you because of your ‘personal situation’.”

Padmé may have said that the Jedi weren’t politicians, but at the moment, Anakin’s not sure he can see the difference. The way in which Windu handles the topic of slavery is a bit too delicate for Anakin’s tastes, even if he can hardly bring himself to say it himself. It feels like weakness.

“That’s correct.” The silence lingers this time, and Anakin takes the helm. Even through the murk of the city-planet, he feels a nudge to speak his mind. “You’re here about the Shatterpoint, aren’t you?”

Windu whirls at that, unable to contain his surprise, though he covers it gracefully with a flourish, hands folding behind his back as he watches Anakin with careful, evaluative closeness. “Where did you hear a word like that?”

Like always, Anakin doesn’t lie.

“Master Qui-Gon.”

“He told you about Shatterpoints. As a child.” There’s a question, but Windu disguises it as gracefully as he had his early surprise.

“No. He told me about them yesterday.” _After I fled_.

Because that’s what he had done. Fled. His cowardice bothers him. It’s unbecoming.

Both brows lift now, and the Korun Master makes no mask of his disbelief. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Master.” Anakin presses his lips thin. He wasn’t sure exactly what he anticipated, but an interrogation isn’t it.

“I see,” he says again. Windu takes a moment then, looks about at the surroundings. “You’re leaving the planet?”

They both very well know that he is. It’s an opening, Anakin sees, though exactly what for, he’s not sure.

“Yes. For Naboo. The Senator has been away from home too long.”

An even nod from Windu follows the statement. “I won’t keep your or the Senator from your intended flight plan. When you return, please, call and make an appointment. I would be interested in speaking with you more, Anakin Skywalker.”

And there, finally, Anakin finds his upper hand in a conversation that feels far more confrontational than it has any right to be. Like dueling, but with words. “Thank you for your invitation, Master; however, I’m unsure if I will be returning at all. I’m set to leave the Senator’s employ upon arrival. There’s another job lined up for me there already.”

If Windu is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, but Anakin counts it as a win anyways.

“Consider it an open invite. May The Force Be With You, Skywalker.”

“And with you, Master Windu.”

And just like a storm, the Jedi is gone as quickly as he came, the electricity of their interaction sparking in his wake.

“Ani?” Padmé peers around the corner, eyes shining brightly. “Is everything alright?”

As much as he wants to, Anakin doesn’t shadow the truth. “I don’t know,” he says. He’s not sure he will ever know.

Alright is relative. They may be, they might not be. The only thing he knows for sure is that everything is absolutely, completely different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funfact of the day. Samuel L Jackson's lightsaber activation stud plate reads BMF in reference to Pulp Fiction.


	7. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of filler, though I count anything that helps along Anakin's character development as essential, so I guess it's not really filler. Enjoy the softness while you can. 
> 
> Thank you to all my increasingly lovely reviewers. 
> 
> A good lot of the middle sequence is inspired by the deleted scenes/novelization of AotC. Why reinvent the wheel when you can simply revamp and reinclude it?
> 
> Unbeta'd.

There are not enough words in Anakin’s vocabulary to even begin to describe how wonderful Naboo is. Everything is alive in a way that Coruscant is not. For all that there are much fewer individuals living on the lush planet, it is positively vibrant in the Force, cool and soothing as a drink of cold water. Padmé is ecstatic to be home, and he basks in the radiance of her happiness. The Theed Royal Starport is full of similarly chromium clad ships, all of which are sleek with gentle curves and angles; in everything, it seems the focus for the Naboo is on aesthetics. There are some littler fighters in the hangar as well, painted a bright, sunny yellow, which Anakin immediately associates with the warmth of Padmé’s smiles.

On the ramp, as they disembark, she pulls Anakin down into a hug, letting a kiss rest on his cheek. “I’ll see you in a bit, Ani. Good luck.”

“You too.”

Then, resuming the austerity for which her position calls, Senator Amidala starts off towards the Palace Halls, Typho following dutifully behind, though Anakin catches his stare on the way out. Just another reason it’s good he’s no longer in Padmé’s service. That could have gotten awkward.

Various technicians run up to service the senatorial cruiser. As Anakin makes his way to the hangar floor, a woman, maybe in her forties, walks briskly up to him. “You Skywalker?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replies, straightening his posture reactively.

“Good to meet you. I’m Dineé Ellberger. You’ve been assigned to me. Welcome to the SVEC. Well, the hands on side of SVEC at least.” She’s no nonsense, but not unkind. Anakin’s reminded a little bit of Cliegg, actually, considering the gruffness, and can’t help but smile a bit.

“I’m glad to be here, thank you.”

Without wasting time, she strides off further into the hangar’s main hall. “I hear Typho recommended you to Panaka-“ A quick glance over her shoulder. “-Lieutenant. That means a great deal, but we like to be sure you know what you’re doing ourselves, if you take my drift. Moving from Security to Maintenance is a little more than switching sectors. The Engineering Corps is the first line of defense. You want to keep people safe, building safe spacecraft is where that begins.”

The words ring sincere and true, and Anakin finds he likes this woman immensely.

“Now,” she continues. “I know a little about making that switch. I used to be a member of the Space Fighter Corps. A Lieutenant, just like you. So I understand where you’re coming from. I’m not out to get you, there’s no rivalry here. I’m just in the business of hiring the best and only the best.”

Stopping, Ellberger held open a door. “We’re headed below to the maintenance deck. The upper deck here is retractable, so we can lower and raise ships when we need to.”

“And keep everything contained within the outcropping. Very ergonomic.”

Ellberger smirks at him for the comment. “We Naboo are all about ergonomics. Now, get a move on, Skywalker.”

A few hours later, when he’s passed Dineé’s muster, been given a complete tour, a uniform, and his own workspace, the excitement wanes into a comfortable hum. Yes, building and fixing things is truly his calling. Already, Anakin can feel the harmony singing between himself and the new tools he’s fiddling with, the schematics tacked to the main office wall, the ship hulls, the other workers. Harmony and peace. Broken things come in. Fixed things go out. Something settles in him, locks into place. He could be at peace here, with this, he knows. Of course, just looking at the sleek little yellow fighters has him hankering to take off, but it’ll be good to slow down for a while. And he is still helping. The hangar sees all manner of official Naboo transport, including craft that orchestrate relief and mercy missions, which have grown in frequency, or so he's been told, since the outbreak of the war. So it’s a different kind of help, but it is still help.

Later, he meets back up with Padmé, who still in her senatorial garb makes his new navy blue flight suit with yellow trim seem less than impressive. But her slender fingers trail appreciatively over the symmetrical grey and yellow star trail patch on his shoulder.

“Come on, Ani. Let’s go home.”

He spends the next while dazed by the words.

Home.

She doesn’t qualify it – ‘ _ my  _ home’.

Just  _ home. _

Home turns out to be a rather modest apartment, all things considered. It’s not far from the palace, just along the Plaza walk. As they enter, he notes that while the security is high, it’s all electronic. The building itself is another story, housing many of the capitol’s lesser dignitaries. Waiting inside, of all things, is Artoo.

Immediately, Anakin knees down to say hello to his whistling, chirping droid friend.

“It didn’t feel right for him to be anywhere but with you, Ani,” Padmé says, almost wistfully. “Consider him my gift.”

For her thoughtfulness, Anakin swings her into his arms and a tight hug. “You’re wonderful, you know that? But who will keep you safe if Artoo’s not there to watch out for you for me?”

“Oh, I’m sure Typho will be able to keep things under control. Besides, the Jedi seem to be constantly assigning me protectors.” The moment it’s out of her mouth, she seems to clam up and stops, as if worried that he might not appreciate the mention. But nothing can break Anakin’s good humour this day.

“Well good. Even better. They actually  _ know  _ how to use the Force.”

It takes her a second to see the mirth in his eyes, but when she does, she mirrors it, laughing aloud before ducking her head into his chest reflexively.

“Anyways,” Padmé considers. “I was thinking that you could stay here, if you like, whether I’m here or not. I’m not sure what you want to do. And of course, you’re free to do whatever you’d like, you know, I-I don’t want t-to pressure you or anything but-“

“Padmé!” Even her anxious rambling is endearing. “It’s alright. You’re not pressuring me. Don’t worry. I’ll be glad to stay here for now, if that’s alright with you, which I’m going to guess it is. I’m not sure what the future might bring, but for now, it’s one less thing for me to have to worry about. And I thank you for that. Really.”

“Oh,” she sags in relief. “Good. I was worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Angel,” he says. “Now. It’s late and I imagine you’re just as hungry as I am. Please tell me you have a kitchen here?”

And seamlessly, everything is once again right with the world.

Without the weight of duty bearing down on them, and in a comfortable location, they relax easily into one another’s company. They talk of all manner of things; his new job, her meeting with the Queen, the upcoming trip to Padmé’s hometown. It’s a familiar dance for Anakin, chatting in the kitchen while the slight figure of a woman weaves in and around him as they cook together – though, it’s really Anakin who does the cooking, with Padmé bringing him the asked for ingredients; it is her kitchen after all, though he gets the feeling it’s hardly been used since she moved in. The routine reminds him of his home, of his Mom and Cliegg and Owen. Even Beru. It all leads back to  _ home _ .

Home is people, he’d always known.

Now his home will forever be split, because as sure as he knows that the sun will rise, he knows that Padmé is the home he was meant to find, and so, wherever she is, there his heart will also be. It’s a private revelation, one he’s not ready to reveal, though he tries to tell her in his smiles and his laughter and his gaze.

Later in the evening, when they’re laying together in bed, relishing simply in being close, Padmé takes his arm – the right one, the cybernetic one – and kisses his fingertips, his palm, his wrist.

“Can you feel it?” she asks quietly, and he nods.

“A little. Not as much as if it were real, though.” As if determined to prove him wrong, she presses another kiss beneath the inner crease of the elbow. “It’d feel nicer on the other arm,” he repeats, confused.

“Mm. I know,” she whispers. “But this arm saved my life. It’s a part of you, and I love it even as I love the rest of you.”

As inconsequential as her words seem, for she continues to kiss him, to stroke along the plating of the prosthesis, Anakin is overwhelmed by the sentiment. It’s just an arm, really. Nothing more than metal and circuitry, easily replaced.

She threads her fingers between the metal ones, kisses the back of the hand with a sigh.

It’s just an arm.

Just an arm.

They take a civilian transport to Padmé’s hometown. While her parents keep a residence in Theed, having moved there when Padmé took her first strides into the political arena, they keep up the home they’d built in the mountainous region just outside of the capitol. The ride is spent hearing all manner of stories about her family, learning their names, their appearances, likes and dislikes. It’s clear that she’s excited to be going home, even if only for a short visit. Introducing him to them is a good excuse, but he knows that it’s more than that. It means something.

He remembers when Owen went to dinner at the Whitesuns’, how his step-brother kept pulling at his collar or trying to flatten his hair. Even now, thinking back, Anakin can find the tendril of fate that connects Owen and his girlfriend and is positive that when he hears back from his mother, she’ll probably have some news regarding the progression of that particular relationship.

Maybe Anakin should be more nervous, but he’s not. Since leaving Coruscant, everything’s felt spectacularly clear, even if he isn’t quite ready to examine his experience at the Temple. Any murk and unsurety is dispelled. His choices feel crystalline as the waters of the Solleu which crisscross Theed, intermingling naturally with the manmade structures around it. Such is life on Naboo. On Coruscant, there is nothing natural. Not really. On Naboo, man made things do not detract from nature or destroy it, they mirror and reflect it, cohabitating the planet.

Padmé squeezes his cybernetic hand tightly in her own, making sure he can really feel it.

Maybe her perspective on his arm isn’t so difficult to understand after all.

Ruwee has a bit of a stern look on his face when Padmé introduces Anakin as her boyfriend, but it’s too little too late. Though he does manage to look convincingly frightening, Anakin has seen the joy on Ruwee’s features when he swept his daughter into a hug. It’s clear where Padmé’s warmth comes from, not to mention her passion and determination. Her mother, Jobal, is just as strong of character and even tempered as her husband, though she keeps her critical eye on him first before softening for her daughter’s embrace. There’s Sola, her elder sister, who starts their interaction teasingly skeptical, her brother-in-law, Darred, and their children, Padmé’s little nieces, Ryoo and Pooja.

The little girls couldn’t be more different than night and day. Ryoo, dark of hair and suspicious of expression is older and taller than Pooja, who has lighter brown curls and an open beaming face with ruddy cheeks. Both girls, however, stare at him with shy curiosity from behind their mother’s skirts as he is introduced. Unable to help himself, Anakin kneels on one knee, takes each girl’s hand and kisses her knuckles. Pooja giggles. Ryoo blushes furiously and hides in a huff.

All the adults chuckle at the display. 

It’s different, being in so intimate a setting with someone else’s family. First, it was only he and Shmi, but Cliegg and Owen never really felt like their own family. Really, Anakin had only ever known them after it was practically a given that his mother would marry Cliegg. He and his mother simply adopted them in, even if it was technically the Skywalkers who married into the Lars’. Nal and Qrere could have been considered a family too, Anakin supposes. At first, being on the ship felt almost intrusive, and eventually, they’d accepted him. But it was never home.

While Anakin is welcomed at the Naberrie home, it is inaccurate to say he is accepted, at least, not right away. Jobal is a consummate housewife, greeting him like a guest, much to Padmé’s dismay, though Ruwee admonishes her that had she given them some indication that Anakin would be arriving with her, perhaps her mother would have had some time to be cajoled into something less formal. It’s her armor, Anakin understands. She’s had no opportunity to get used to the idea; falling back on well known ways is the easiest route to deal with it.

The rapport between the Naberrie sisters, however, is as informally jovial as ever, Sola haranguing Padmé for her secrecy regarding her ‘scandalously younger paramour’. At that sting, Anakin is the one to blush, before Darred and Ruwee both assure him that nothing of the sort is remotely true, that this is the natural banter between sisters, and he’s not to take any offense to Sola’s sporting ways, even if he’s the butt of the joke.

Darred is an easy figure to relate to, being married into the family, and Anakin finds himself looking equally to him as he does to Padmé for guidance through the choppy waters of friendly family politics. If this is what Owen was subjected to at the Whitesun house, Anakin thinks, he’ll take back every friendly jibe he ever made at his step-brother’s expense.

Eventually, when the family is done pestering their beloved daughter/sister/aunt, the attention is turned on Anakin.

He’ll go a step further than take it all back, Anakin vows silently. He’ll tell Owen outright in the next holojournal entry he makes.

Really though, it’s not quite so bad as the day wears on. At dinner, they ask about his homelife, about his family, his work, how he came to meet Padmé – a story which she’s quick to start in on, much to Anakin’s dismay; he doesn’t like the idea that he saved a whole planet without knowing it, doesn’t like the idea that it continues to be the first impression other people receive of him. That story aside, Padmé watches him worriedly, more than once, as questions fall too close for comfort to subjects best left untouched, but Anakin is no slouch in the avoidance department, more than capable of steering the conversation in more acceptable directions. A few times, especially through the course of his somewhat creative recounting of how he went from Senatorial Security Lieutenant to a member of the Engineering Corps, he spies Padmé’s parents glancing at her with increasing worry, though she either doesn’t notice, or refuses to acknowledge the truth. Her parents are terrified. Likely her sister and Darred are too, but they pointedly keep their eyes on their plates.

Not a new worry then. Not a new  _ argument _ .

“Anyways,” Padmé’s saying. “Anakin and I decided it was probably for the best that he not be a member of my direct security team, all things considered.” For being at home with her family, Padmé still speaks with a decidedly oratorial air.

“And have you yet vetted a replacement?” her father asks, unable to disguise his urgency.

“Well, no,” Padmé admits in a careful tone. “Captain Typho is going over several possible replacements and I won’t be underway for a little while yet.”

“You said that the last time, dear.” Jobal sets down her spoon. “And you were barely home for half a week. Since then, we’ve not seen you for months! And you’ve been in more firefights since then! And that Master Kenobi! I still can’t believe a Jedi took you to a hostile planet in the middle of a battle!”

“Mother, you misunderstand. I insisted I be brought along. It was Master Kenobi who followed me to keep me safe!”

Sola’s eyes dart up and meet Anakin’s, a plea in her features.

“Only a select number of missions since then have been truly dangerous,” Anakin offers up, drawing both Padmé and her mother’s attention. “Captain Typho is the best of the best. He’s seen her safe so far and I have every confidence that he will continue to do so, in my absence.” Maybe it’s an odd thing to say, considering Typho i- _ was _ his superior, but it just feels right. “Your daughter’s role in the Senate could make or break this war, and as you well know, she’s intelligent enough to know that her safety is paramount to that possibility continuing.

While a glance at her parents reveals it to be the right thing for him to have said on their behalf, it is entirely wrong as far as Padmé goes, who is glaring at him lightly. But he’ll gladly endure her ire if it means her family can rest assured in their Padmé’s safety.

Evening draws on with little further argument. Ryoo and Pooja are found fast asleep on the sofa beside a thorough beribboned Artoo, who whistles forlornly in his plight. Sola calls Padmé away, and when Ruwee summons Anakin out to the veranda, he gets the sneaking suspicion that the two orchestrated it that way.

“She’s in danger, isn’t she?” Ruwee asks, holding out a glass of dark Nabooian wine for Anakin who takes it only out of politeness.

“Simply by virtue of who she is, yes. I won’t lie to you.”

“You’re going to get chewed out for what you said at dinner.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, Sir.”

Ruwee lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Anakin. She’s not spent a lot of time thinking about settling down, but I saw it in her eyes when she looked at you that it’s in the back of her mind now.”

“Maybe so, sir,” Anakin replies deferentially. “But Padmé is her own woman, and I can no more make her settle than I can stop the stars from burning.”

“Hmm. I think you underestimate yourself.” Ruwee turns from the gentle Naboo night to survey Anakin. “She brought you here, after all.”

Their conversation dwindles, ending finally when Jobal summons them in. Sola is waiting too, to take him to his room, which, with a grin from Sola more befitting a Kowakian monkey lizard, turns out to be the same as Padmé’s. When he gives her a look, she throws it right back at him, ushering him in with a quick wish goodnight.

All and all, a pleasant day, which leads into an equally pleasurable week, where Padmé shows him all around her childhood stomping grounds with a glee he’s sure only comes from revisiting one’s secret childhood places. Halfway through their stay, Sola, Darred and their girls return home. Both of Padmé’s nieces spend the better part of their goodbyes on him and Artoo, which delights their Aunt to no end, and he’s teased relentlessly for having garnered their tender affections when he consented to braid their hair on the second night of their stay.

By the time they too take their leave of the Naberrie’s Padmé has still not broached that first evening’s conversation with him, though he anticipates he won’t be spared much longer. They’re set to leave for the Lake Country, where Padmé’s family keeps some sort of retreat. The implications are far more than Anakin’s ready to tangle with quite yet; even though he’d always understood that she was well off, it’s something else to see evidence of it beyond that which her station accords her. He’s just happy that they’ll have the opportunity to be alone for what may be the last time in some time. She’s only allotted a month for her stay on Naboo before she must return to Coruscant, and even within that month she’s still obliged to fulfill official duties, which sometimes require her passage back and forth to make appearances for votes and such, which cannot be done officially through hologramme. They have a week yet before they’re both due back to work, so Anakin sets his mind to the present, instead of thinking too far forward. There’s no point in wasting their precious time lamenting how little of it they have left.

When they finally reach Varykino, all such thoughts vanish effortlessly from his mind. The sweeping grandeur of the landscape leaves him breathless. More waterfalls than he can count, glittering lakes like mirrors, soft carpets of long, swaying grasses, sweet scented flowers and a clean clear odour he can’t place. A different sort of peace falls over him in this place, something unlike the solemn tranquility of the temple, or the tender quiet that is laying with Padmé in his arms.

Padmé too, is transformed. He’s seen so many sides of her since their reunion on Corellia. The Senator. The friend. Daughter, sister, aunt.

Here, she is carefree and light.

They take the boat to a green little island visible from the veranda of the villa, lazing about in the grass, talking about nothing, kissing, clasping hands as they scan the clouds for the shapes of starships, for creatures, people’s faces. Anything. For a little while, they even doze. Anakin, rolling to his back, smiles up with closed eyes at the sun. It is the first time he’s ever really had time to notice, but this sun’s warmth is friendly, it’s rays a whispering kiss on his cheeks. Thoughts ambling and wayward, he loses himself in the freedom of the moment, until a shadow darkens above him. When he cracks his eyes open, Padme is leaning over him, loosed curls just catching over his tunic.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Her laugh is melodious, gentle as a trickling stream. “Have a nice nap?”

“Mmm. It’s soothing here. Like nowhere I’ve ever been. It’s perfect.”

“Good. I think so, too.”

That evening, when they’re readying for bed, Anakin breaks the peace by apologizing for his comment to her parents.

Amazingly, she rolls her eyes. “You meant well. I know what you were trying to do for them, and for me, and I can’t fault you for that.” Though her tone is a little reluctant, it’s evident that she’s telling the truth. “It will always be a difficulty with my family. You weren’t prepared for it, and that’s on me.” She sighs, pulling aside the covers. “I was a little angry, but I didn’t want to hash it out while we were at home.”

She bandies the word about so carelessly, Anakin notices. So many places are ‘home’ to her. He hopes that never has to change.

“Now that time has passed,” she continues, Anakin pulling his thoughts back to the present moment. “I’m actually glad I didn’t say anything. What I had in mind wouldn’t have been kind or fair. I guess we can save our first fight for later.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is rather unrealistic to expect that we’ll always agree.”

Padmé’s eyes shoot up to her hairline. “You’re joking.  _ Please _ tell me you’re joking”

He lasts about a minute, and she looks like she’s gearing up in a big way, before his serious expression cracks and relief smooths her features. “Yeah, you’ve caught me. I had no such expectations. Mom and Cliegg bicker. Not often, but sometimes. They’re both pretty strong willed, and neither of us are exactly pushovers-“

In a rather undignified manner, Padmé snorts. Anakin’s so struck, he stops speaking.

“What, didn’t you anticipate that I’d be unladylike sometimes?” she manages through her outright laughter at the shock in his expression. It’s nothing akin to the charming giggles from the previous afternoon. She’s positively raucous, and he finds that he loves her for it. This Padmé is  _ his _ . Private. Personal. To him she bears this part of herself. Her realest self. She doesn’t pretend. No politician’s mask overcomes her mannerisms, no concerned daughter, who conceals the worst from her parents and sister.To him, she is open to know.

In time, he hopes she will share with him her all.

In time, he hopes that he will feel comfortable enough to do the same. Qui-Gon’s words still haunt him.

“You’ve got me there.” He ignores her self-satisfied smirk. “Anyways, I figured we were bound to have an argument eventually. I’m not totally uneducated in such matters.”

“No. No you’re not. But right now, we’re not fighting. So let’s spend the time in a more productive way than imagining the times we will, shall we?”

“Of course, M’lady.” he teases, trying not to laugh. “I’d be much too frightened to ignore the advice of a senator.”

Getting hit with the pillow is worth her smile. There will be plenty of other days to dwell on darkness. For now, Anakin is suffused in the light, and he doesn’t plan on leaving it any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin's boss is a real character who flew against the Trade Federation in the liberation of Naboo.   
> The patch on Anakin's uniform looks like this: https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/2/26/TheedVesselEngineering.svg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/350?cb=20160105215048
> 
> In other news, I now want to litter my NASA flight jacket with Star Wars Airforce patches.


	8. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. 
> 
> Thanks to all who are reading, commenting, and leaving kudos.

_From within blackness, light. From within fire, absence._

_As his hand passes into the maw, so does his dark twin's, and as they make contact, they merge, fusing at the palm. A thin plane of glass spires from between where they are joined and then, cracking, shatters._

_The shining slivers hang suspended in the air around him. The dark twin is gone. There is only his hand, reaching out. Cautiously, he draws it back. In this place, there is no breath necessary for life, no time, no rotation. Everything is at a standstill. Plucking a shard from the ether, Anakin holds it up. It mirrors the empty void behind him, glittering with stars whose potential is long lost. As he moves it in his hand, an image flashes within._

_Anakin looks down. He is still day-bright white with light. He lifts the mirrored shard to his face and sees…_

_Nothing._

_He looks away as a tremble passes through him, the nervousness subsiding, glances back up-_

_Yellow-Red, the eye glares back at him._

_Stricken, he lets go of the fragment; it hangs where it is released, potential building. Rapidly, Anakin grabs another. The dark twin is there. The gasp is unintentional. The mirror opens its mouth too, blinding brilliance spewing forth so harshly that the darkness is subsumed. When it recedes, there is nothing in the fragment save the blackness._

_Not even him._

_B a l_ _a_ _n_ _c_ _e_ _._ _._ _._

_The shards begin to shiver as the potential force continues to build, but Anakin pays no mind, for the fragment is full of nothing, but surrounded by everything. Slowly, Anakin looks down at himself, but there is no self to see, only the unending void._

_The rumble of potential is set free, carrying the vibrations of his silent screams._

The first thing he hears is the shattering of glass. It’s so much a part of the vision, that he doesn’t mark the difference. Can’t tell it for reality. He’s stuck, struggling.

“-ke up! Ani! Anakin!” It takes him too long to recognize Padmé’s voice, for his eyes to make out the shape of her in the darkness of their room. He’s lying on his back, she’s above him, shaking him, eyes wide with fear.

A bright, glimmering haze is raining down behind her. It’s the work of a split second for him to surge up, to pull her into his chest and roll them over, shielding her as the blown out window glass reigns down against his back. It’s all but over before it began. He’s nearly crushing her, he realizes, and rolls off of her, ignoring the sting and chime of shattered glass when he shifts his weight to fall back again. He pushes his hands up against his face, the flesh one trembling. Lax, weak, exhausted, he shuts his eyes, chest heaving with the simple effort to breathe.

“Ani, Ani, can you hear me?”

Too tired to speak, throat raw, he simply nods, hopes she will understand. She must, for her hand falls to his forehead, gently pushes away his hands, smoothing the stray waves of hair stuck to his sweat slicked forehead. It’s too hot inside him, the flames of the supernova licking at his heart, threatening to melt him down. _Padm_ é _,_ he sings her name to himself in his thoughts. _Padm_ é. _Safe. Not hurt. Safe._

He’s never once been happy until now to think on the fact that she’s leaving for Coruscant in the morning.

“What was that?”

The bed shifts again as she makes to stand, but he feels her weight fall against him as she elicits a hiss. “There’s glass _everywhere_. Don’t get up.”

He should move. He should help her. But he doesn’t. He’s not sure if it’s that he doesn’t want to, or if he can’t. The light turns on; Anakin squeezes his eyes shut all the more tightly.

“I don’t see any projectiles. But looking at the glass pattern, it does appear to have blown inwards, which would indicate an assault of some kind from the outside-“

She’s rambling, her voice unsteady. _It was me,_ he wants to say. _I did this. I nearly hurt you_ . He says nothing. _She knows_ , a voice within him whispers seditiously. _She already knows. She’s looking for alternatives because she’s afraid. Because if it was you, that makes you dangerous. You’re a danger to her. Just like you worried. You can’t control it. You weren’t even trying this time, and you still went too far._

“-nakin can you hear me? Ani, _please,_ can you hear me?”

He nods. It takes more strength than he thinks it should to do so. He’s never felt this drained after reaching so deeply, but then, he never really knew how long he was out of it, never really knew how long he lay there afterwards. An odd flood of relief flows through his muscles, which finally relax. He hadn’t managed to hurt her. At least, not directly.

“Ani…Ani what happened?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Maybe it’s a silly thing to say, but he needs to say it. It’s better than telling her he doesn't know the answer to her question. Because he doesn’t, really. He doesn’t understand any of it, and he wishes he could just call on Qui-Gon Jinn, wishes that the Jedi Master would have appeared in the dream to stop whatever it was that was happening.

“I believe you.” Not ‘I know’. Not ‘Of course you didn’t’. But, ‘I believe you’.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.” He grounds out, ignores the beaded remnants of the glass pane sticking into the meat of his back. “Sorry.”

“It’s just a window, Ani. That’s all.” Soothing, her voice cools him like the waterfalls at Varykino. “It can be replaced. Don’t worry. It’s just a window.”

He nods again, before finally forcing himself to open his eyes. Even though he knows she’s beside him, he avoids looking at her, afraid of what he’ll see.

 _She’s afraid of you. She’s right to be afraid of you_.

“No.” he whispers, pushing back against the whisper in his heart. “No.”

_You’re afraid of you._

There’s no point in denying that one. Gingerly, Anakin sits up, a rain of glass sluicing in a twinkling waterfall to collect in the sheets.

“Ani, your back!”

He feels rather than sees he reach for him, flinches away. “I’ll be fine. Just, stay here. I’ll clean it up.”

“No.” The firmness of her denial draws his gaze instinctively, much to his dismay. Conviction is etched in her features. Not fear. Not pity. “ _We’ll_ clean up. And then you’re going to tell me about your dream. No one can help you unless you share the burden, Anakin. Please, let me help you.”

That same instinctive impulse knows that she’s not talking about the sheets. 

In silence, they take care of the worst of the glass, and the ruined sheets, setting a cleaning droid on the rest of the mess. In the kitchen, Padmé, pushes him onto a stool. As she sets to work on his back, he leans his head to the cool stone of the counter, just breathing, waiting with more patience than he’s usually in command of, for her to speak.

She doesn’t, and he realizes, belatedly, that she’s really already said her part. That it’s his turn. She won’t push him, but he wants to tell her. His mother isn’t there to offer advice, and he’d never liked burdening her. Even though her own waking visions were never as terrible as his subconscious ones are, she’d had enough paralyzing day dreams when he was young that still keep him from feeling comfortable with unloading to his mother, especially when he’d already done so more than once in the last few years before he left Tatooine.

“It’s never happened in my sleep before,” he starts. “There’s a place inside me that’s like the vastness of space.” Even to him, it sounds ludicrous. Padmé, to her merit, doesn’t balk or flinch or hesitate once through the story as she continues her ministrations, not even when he mentions the supernova. Or the black hole. Not when he tells about destroyed slave quarters, or the glass in the desert.

Not even when he describes the dark twin with his predatory smile.

“We have the potential for light and dark,” Padmé says diplomatically when he’s finished, throat dry with the words and the exceedingly early hour. “You mention that you keep hearing the word ‘balance’. Maybe that’s what this is about. This power… the Force… whatever it is, if you keep pushing it down and away, it’s only going to build up. Maybe that’s what’s been happening. You’re trying so hard to control what’s going on, that you’re only exacerbating the problem.”

Such matter-of-fact clarity bewilders him. When he voices his feelings, Padmé only smiles – he knows, because he can feel it against the skin of his neck, where she then presses a kiss.

“You’re too close to the problem. If I were in your position, I’d be afraid too, Anakin. Are you sure the Jedi can’t help?”

Qui-Gon’s face fills his memory. “I’m sure. But I know who can.”

The next morning, Padmé is reluctant to leave him. They’d both gotten far less sleep than necessary, but he sees her off at the appointed time anyways, kissing her hand and meeting her eyes with an expression that speaks of gratitude over even love. She fortifies him, makes him stronger through her council and level-headed deliberation. But her duty is elsewhere, and though a small part of him fractures to know that she’ll be in danger and without him, he trusts that she did fine without him before, and now, by some small miracle, sees him as all the more reason to play things a little safer than usual.

On his break at work, he orders her a replacement window, for which he drains a good amount of his funds to pay. She hadn’t wanted him to; he’d insisted. The day passes without incident. Dineé teases him about the bags under his eyes – it’s harmless poking about his relationship with ‘the Senator’ which is apparently common knowledge since that morning, and he still finds it within himself to blush at the insinuation. It’s good, honest work, accomplished beside good honest people who open themselves to him without question or recompense. He learns about their families, their daily lives, the far more local politics of Naboo. At the end of shift, he’s even dragged out to a local establishment for dinner and drinks, and though there’s a little teasing when he tells them he’s a lightweight, they don’t push him about it.

It’s pleasant, all told, even without the bonus of seeing Padmé when he returns to the apartment that evening. Already the new window has been installed, and the only thing that keeps Anakin from finding somewhere less dangerous to sleep is his utter exhaustion. The subtle support of Padmé’s suggestion that he’d expelled the pent up energy the night before doesn’t hurt either.

Regardless, he resolves that on his first day off, he will return to the Lake Country, find himself someplace safe to-to…to do whatever it is that he’s doing, however poorly, and maybe try and make contact with Qui-Gon Jinn.

This can’t go on any longer. He can’t afford for it to do so, in more ways than one.

The second to last day before his break, a package arrives for him from his mother. It’s small, no doubt a datachip for his new holojournal, and all but races home in anticipation of viewing it.

When the first hologram fizzles blue light into being, Anakin can’t help himself. He tears up.

 _“Hello Ani! My little love!”_ She’s beautiful as ever, vibrant and healthy and absolutely wonderful. His heart clenches with the pain of missing her. “ _Look at you! You look so wonderful! Maybe it’s just the hologram, but I can almost see a new light in your eyes! You are so grown up, my Ani, but there is still the awe of a child within you. Don’t lose that, my son. Just because you are grown, does not mean there’s no value in the wonderment of a child. Keep it with you, always.”_

She pauses a moment, wipes tears from her own eyes. Anakin’s are already soaking down his cheeks, even for the smile that he cannot help from creeping over his features.

 _“You have done so much in so few months – it’s such a big world. Don’t forget to slow down sometimes too. You need it!”_ A sigh. _“I’m grateful that you’re telling me everything, but some of the things you’ve told me frighten me, Ani. I know you are made for this, that you are helping, that you’re old enough to find your way in life, but I still get so nervous when you mention getting into fights. And now to be working for Padmé_ , _as her security, and during the war…my heart aches for you, Ani, but you make me so proud. So wonderfully proud. I love you, my Ani. I love you so very much.”_

The first entry is followed by a third, Cliegg on his own, and a fourth, Owen on his own, each with supportive things to say and anecdotes from life on the farm since he left. There’s a fifth with Owen and Beru, announcing their engagement, which doesn’t surprise him even a little. The last is his mother again. In her smile, he can see a secret, something that’s familiar, but obscured, a great knowledge waiting to be imparted.

 _“I’m happy for you and your Padmé, Ani. But it’s unfair to say of yourself that you know_ nothing _of women. Think about yourself. Think about the things that you want in life. To make choices. To make a difference. To help others. To be listened to. To find love. These are all the same things she wants, aren’t they? The same things that all good people want. Give her nothing less than what you would desire from her for yourself. Dignity, respect, compassion. That’s all you need to know, Anakin. That’s all you will ever need to know. Oh! And bring her flowers. Flowers help. Good luck, my Anakin. And visit soon.”_

For all the rest of that night and the next day, Anakin’s heart feels light, unburdened.

After surveying the land and reaching outward on a surface level, Anakin determines a relatively safe spot on a beach a few klicks away from Villa Varykino. The retreat isn’t visible from his location, which is relatively isolated behind an inlet which juts from the river, and he knows that it’s not been rented out for the weekend, having checked the logbooks upon his arrival. He’s safely alone, and nothing too alive is within the radius he’s determined to be a danger zone.

Instead of going about things as usual, Anakin decides that asking Qui-Gon Jinn about his experience is probably a better idea. Though he’s taken appropriate precautions, he really doesn’t want them to have been necessary. Being afraid all the time is tiring, and frankly, he’s ready for it to stop.

“Ah, young one. Acknowledging the problem is the first step towards solving it! You’ve already begun on your way, with nary a word of guidance from me.”

Without trying, without summoning or calling, Qui-Gon is there with him, sitting across from him on the beach, the waves lapping up around him on the shore.

“Teacher!” Anakin bows his head a little.

“You’re afraid. What are you afraid of?” The lesson begins without any pomp.

“Meditation.”

Qui-Gon laughs, but it’s not unkind. “Try again.”

“The power inside me.”

“Closer. That will do for now. Remember, Anakin, the Force will not hurt you. You are of the Force. While it is not a nursemaid, it will guide you. You must let go of your fear, or you will only fall into an unending cycle. You Senator friend is right. The more you stifle it, the more your power will seek release.” Qui-Gon’s incorporeal hand falls through Anakin’s flesh once, and he feels the compulsion to turn it over so it appears that the back rests within Qui-Gon’s palm. “Do not chain that which is meant to be free, Anakin.” Shimmering blue fingers brush over the tattoo. “You do yourself only harm by chaining the power. That does not mean you must let it run rampant. No, your focus determines your reality, or have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t.” On the contrary, he’s kept the words close at hand. “But I’m starting to think that I never really understood what it means. What any of it means.”

Patient to a fault, Qui-Gon shakes his head. “Then I will teach you. What is your focus, Anakin?”

“To stop these outbursts. And don’t tell me that I should try again, but lately, that’s about the only thing that’s been on my mind and I’m pretty sure that I’m not wrong.”

A warm chuckle is his only response. “Tell me, Ani, when you have a broken speeder, what do you do to mend it?”

“I test anything that could be the source of the problem. When I find it, I fix it.”

With a thoughtful stroke to his beard, Qui-Gon hums in acknowledgement. “Say you buy a speeder with a broken part that’s been patched. It’s held up so far, but every once in a while, you stall on start.”

Anakin shrugs. It’s common sense after all. “Patches are temporary. They’re not meant to fix things long term. Either you find out what’s wrong and you can fix it, or you find out what’s wrong and you can’t. If you don’t look, you’re bound to make it worse.” Even as he says the words, he understands the lesson.

“Tell me, my Padawan, what is your focus?”

“Discovering what causes the outbursts so that I can find a way to end them.”

A long, slow nod follows his assertion, and he can practically feel the approval. “Your first lesson is already at an end. Your perception is everything. If you focus on the wrong thing, your reality will not match that of your anticipated outcome. You must learn to hone your perception. To understand the root of an issue is to understand how to solve it. A Jedi does not seek to bandage his problems, he seeks to find the best way to heal them. Now, what have you determined?”

Carefully, Anakin chooses his words, takes his time. He feels no rush, no passage of the sun or the wind or the waves, despite the surroundings. “My outbursts are caused by my suppressing my connection with the Force. I suppressed it because I reached more deeply than I was ready and I was frightened by what I didn’t understand. Fear has been my focus, and my reality has been delegated by it.”

“Well said. The easy part is over. You must trust, now, in the Force. Trust that, if you listen, it will guide you. It will not let you drown. The Force is your power, and your power is the Force, you do not need to reach. Do not fear what you do not know. Embrace it. Curiosity is your beacon, it will not lead you astray.”

The words feel good and true, the kiss of a gentle breeze against his mind, and the tension eases from Anakin’s heart a little.

“What about the dark twin?”

Qui-Gon’s smile fades. “That is not for me to reveal. The visions are meant for you to explore.”

The encouragement rings true. _Wonder. Awe_. These things his mother pressed upon him only days before. Had he not once been the little boy who was sure he would visit every starsystem in the galaxy? Was he not the child who built things, just to see if he could? Who aided a wounded Tusken when no one else would have dared to go near him? Was he not still that child, at his core, who set off from the barren empty land of his childhood, aimless, ready to let his path find him, not the other way around? Never before had the vastness of the night sky instilled in him fear. It is immense and impossible, deadly even, but it is also full of life and possibility, its black fabric dotted with innumerable stars, bursting in their radiance.

In his mind’s eye, he could see his younger self, pouting at him in disapproval, disappointment.

The vision faded.

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

But when Anakin looks, Qui-Gon isn’t there anymore. There is only the beach and the waves and the sand beneath him.

He closes his eyes, lets the rhythm of the waves lull him. Instead of trying to reach, he simply sinks, drifting aimless, a leaf carried by the stream. There’s a heady rush, a burst of exhilaration and then, the jolt as the water falls away and there is nothing left holding him but his own expectation. He will not fall because he knows he will not fall, water or no water to carry him.

He carries himself.

The Astral Sea is not so empty now, not with his child’s eyes to navigate for him. Every star is a glittering jewel, every nebula a blossoming flower.

There is no supernova. Not anymore. Without his fear, there is nothing to feed its hungering flames.

But there is still the binary system, the red star and the white, and there devoid of all light and warmth and matter, is the black hole. The current pulls him in, but it’s listless, drifting, without intention. It wears no dragon’s maw, no gnashing teeth. Its silence does not roar.

It cannot harm him.

It never could.


	9. Anomaly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made yesterday my day off from posting, but I still wrote a chapter, which hopefully means that, now that virtual school is up and I'll be a little more preoccupied answering questions and grading, I'll have at least a day's buffer in posting chapters. That is, if my students don't drive me to day-drink in the process
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> Kinda Sorta Beta'd but not really.

“Skywalker! Got an incoming Delta-7.”

“Needs repairs?”

“Extensive. It’s a Jedi fighter.”

The information surprises him a little, but a ship in need of repairs is a ship in need of repairs. Alongside the team of mechanics below him, Anakin gathers together his supplies and hustles to the nearest open bay to set up shop. Ten standard minutes later, the upper deck’s warning alarm blares and the opening sequence begins, revealing a non-standard white, gold, and green  _ Aethersprite. _ Sleek – beautifully so – despite the many carbon scoured blast marks over its hull, Anakin cannot help but admire the ship. The Naboo starfighters are gorgeous in their own way, but the  _ Aethersprite  _ is built for speed, for maneuverability. Just looking at it leaves his palm itchy.

Gracefully, the Jedi pilot lands the ship, the cockpit flying open at the precise moment of touchdown. The head inside is distinctly Nautolan, and when the Jedi looks up, he’s wearing a bright smile. Ironic, considering the condition of his ship. An energetic presence in the Force, Anakin acknowledges his signature subtly before jogging up behind the medics the Jedi is summarily dismissing.

A casual look shows that the shield generator has sustained damage, as well as the engine cooling unit, among other things. Anakin’s busy directing the mechanics toward various jobs when he notices a presence behind him and turns.

It’s the Jedi, his hand extended towards Anakin’s shoulder, disarming smile still in place. The Nautolan’s wide dark eyes should be hard to read, unblinking as they are, but Anakin senses tendrils of intent curiosity.

“We’ll have your ship repaired in no time, Master Jedi,” he says, for lack of anything better.

“Wonderful. That’s good.” Despite how much he smiles, it is genuinely sincere. “I think, however, I will be on planet for a while. In orbit I received new orders. Something about a disturbance here. I am on my way to Otoh Gunga.”

“Do you need us to furnish you with a temporary ship?”

“That would be much appreciated.”

“Of course. Geela here will-“ Anakin looks over to see the mechanic already hard at work and decides not to bother her. “I’ll take you up. Follow me.”

The Nautolan is quiet. It’s a little off putting, mostly because Anakin can sense the intensity of the Jedi’s gaze boring into his back as he leads the Jedi towards the turbolift. The Force pulses around them in rills and gentle waves. Only when they are both enclosed in the turbolift does the Jedi speak again.

“I am Kit Fisto. Thank you for your assistance…”

It isn’t an artful probe. It isn’t really meant to be, of course. If the Jedi – if  _ Kit Fisto _ – wanted Anakin to be unaware of his curiosity, Anakin has no doubt that he would be. But he plays to it anyways.

“Anakin Skywalker.”

Master Fisto’s whole face lights up at the confirmation, though it seems unlikely that he needs it. “I have heard of you,” he says, almost gleeful in his deep, melodic tones.  _ Well, _ Anakin thinks.  _ At least he’s forthright _ . “I like you.”

That catches him off guard. Surprise must filter into the Force, because Kit Fisto’s smile widens. Cocking his head a bit, head tendrils swaying, he makes no secret of his intent as he surveys Anakin. Unsettled by the head on assault, Anakin struggles to find something to say.

“You… _ like _ me?” Inwardly, he cringes. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. We’ve only just met.”

Kit Fisto shrugs again. “A feeling, Skywalker. You were at the Temple, a standard month ago, yes?”

Tentatively, Anakin nods.

“You shine very bright to make yourself so well known so unintentionally.” Kit Fisto’s expression turns thoughtful. “You are bright here, too. Your coworkers and underlings like and respect you. The observations of mere minutes can tell as much if not more about a person than knowing them for years on end.”

“Our first impressions often harden into lasting ones.” Anakin counters, ducking his head slightly to avoid the unblinking stare. “Yours has been very kind. I’m not sure many others would feel the same as you.”

“Mmm.” A low chuckle reverberates in the turbo lift, just as the doors open. “Master Windu can be intimidating. Not the second first impression of our Order I would like us to have made. He and Qui-Gon were amicable, but often did not see eye to eye.”

The insinuation leaves Anakin wondering. Their conversation, however, is at an end as Anakin leads the Jedi to a temporary fighter, explaining in brief the information he will require for the trip. As the Nautolan Master settles himself inside the Nabooian ship, he looks up from studying the controls and fixes Anakin with his endless gaze.

“May the Force be with you, Anakin Skywalker.”

“And with you, Master Fisto.”

With a parting grin, the cockpit closes, the ignition sequence begins, and the fighter takes off rather… enthusiastically, leaving Anakin to ponder. Mired in his thoughts, he returns to the maintenance deck, pulling down the upper half of his flight suit in the contained heat of the space. Before settling in to work on the ship, he grabs the schematic datapad to review the damage not immediately assessable to the eye.

“Geela?”

She raises her head at the call, up from behind the aft end. “Yeah, Anakin?”

“Where’d he come in from? There’s a fair bit of water damage.”

“Kamino, apparently.”

“Kamino? I haven’t heard of Kamino.”

“Must be outside the Republic,” she replies off-handed, settling back in.

Anakin frowns, putting the datapad aside. Fisto is obviously up to something covert. But, whatever it is, it will keep, so instead of dwelling Anakin gets to work. Nothing like getting a little oil stained to solve a mystery. The gravatic knot microcoils in the repulsor vains need replacing – he noticed the wobble on the way down – and once he’s done with that he moves to the bow to check the stability of the deflector power feeds. Half way through, Merdan calls him over to handle some of the more finicky interior electrical systems on the fritz and by the time evening rolls around, Anakin’s lost himself in the work, a meditation in its own right.

“Go home, Skywalker.” Dineé  _ almost _ startles him out of the fugue.  _ Almost. _ “The Jedi isn’t likely to be back until tomorrow, and even if he does come back tonight, this ship’s more than ready to fly without your personal ‘adjustments’.”

He takes the ribbing gracefully, but goes back to fiddling with the circuits beneath the main reactor bulb’s metal casing. “I will, I will. I’m almost finished here.”

“Right. I’ll believe that the day a shaak flies. Get up, clean up. If I leave you here to go home, you’ll never leave until it’s done. So come out from under there. We’re going to meet with the rest for drinks.” The shadow of her hovering over him seems to deflate. “You should get out more. You work too much.”

That earns her a laugh. “I’m not sure I’d call this work. No, no, this is far more like play time to me.”

“Of course it is.” She shakes her head. “Come on. Live a little.”

He does, eventually, after two more mostly gentle nudges and one “direct order”, put aside his tools and clean up. Dineé still reminds him of Cliegg – and he’s said as much in one of his holojournal entries – gruff but well meaning. He finds himself loath to disappoint her, even in such a small thing as socializing.

On a planet as refined as Naboo, there are still places that can be considered hole-in-the-wall enough to service the grimy spacer types that most mechanics seem to gravitate towards, though, compared to Chalmun’s back in Mos Eisley, Idmena Shall’s Place could very well be a five star eatery. It’s a nice little place. Nicer than anywhere Anakin’s eaten in without Padmé beside him to be sure. A couple of times he’s caved and joined Dineé. Merdan and Geela, his direct subordinates, have ganged up on him with her more than once to make sure that he spends at least one night a month having fun somewhere other than under the belly of a starfighter. Merdan, an intern with the Engineering Corps, is hardly more than sixteen, but he’s deft and capable. Geela, hired not long before Anakin and of a similar age, has a knack for finding unique solutions. She’s more than once pushed his own creativity with her insightfulness and as a team, Anakin finds that the three of them work well together. It’s good to really find a place where he fits for once, among people whom he doesn’t consider family, even if it takes more than a one time push to get him to interact on a more than professional level. He has only Dineé to thank for that.

The reality is that he’s not exactly extroverted. He likes to talk, sure, and on the right subject, he’s got more than enough to say to fill an hour or five, but the impetus isn’t there. All the same, after enough nights of going home to the empty apartment, he finds that it is nice to revel and relax in easy company, especially now that he doesn’t feel fit to fly off the handle at any given moment.

Ever since that day in Varykino, things have been different. Vastly different. He’s had the opportunity to settle, for one. Since leaving Tatooine, he’s been hard pressed to establish any sense of routine. He’s been from one thing to the next every few weeks, and even when he was with Padmé, they were never in the same place for more than a few days at a time, not to mention the fact that they were often in intense, potentially deadly situations. Then, with her departure deadline looming over them, they’d been doing so much, trying to fit what they could into such a minimal space of time.

But that evening’s less than stellar events have been the catalyst to more than just a physical settling. He feels easier within his own skin, no longer about to burst at the seams. There have been no more problems, no more accidentally destructive meditations. Tentatively, he’s begun to exercise his connection with the Force physically, instead of just exploring it mentally, with or without Qui-Gon. Lifting things at home, or in the shop when he’s sure no one’s looking, has become second nature. Jumping higher, running faster, moving more dexterously; all these things he’s beginning to hone.

Purposefully reading people’s Force signatures has been his latest endeavour. Earlier that day is the first he’s had opportunity to try it out on another Force sensitive, which is an altogether different experience from his non-Force sensitive colleagues. It’s not really a new thing, reading people; he’s been doing it almost as long as he can remember. What he’d once termed just ‘knowing’ or ‘feeling’ something has become more complex, though no less easy. Intuition. Just a layman’s term for the Force, at least in Anakin’s case.

Mostly, he can’t believe he was ever afraid of in the first place. The Force is truly wonderful. Soothing. Comforting. Jubilant even. Touching it, allowing himself to be enveloped by it is like reliving the moment his mother wrapped her arms around him and told him he was free, over and over again.

The Force isn’t a chain.

The Force is freedom. Absolute and complete freedom. Like flying the best pod ever built, it responds to his every nudge, his every reflex, working in conjunction with him as one. There’s not really very much he does with it, or rather, he’s finding out more and more that he has always done everything with it already. Only, it takes so little effort that he hadn’t known. It comes easy. Easier than breathing. Easier than  _ flying _ , and that’s saying something.

But his thoughts as he walks with Dineé towards Idmena Shall’s Place are much more planetside than the lofty thoughts that accompany his dream-like musings of the Force.

Naboo at night is glorious. Streetlights are still candlelit – a tradition of old that a few families refuse to see die out – and they cast a lustrous glow from behind the bubble like glass covers over the cobble streets and the charming green roofs. As far as places to make a home go, Theed is definitely one of the more picturesque. The streets smell of the night blooming Millaflower, a heady scent that reminds Anakin desperately of Padmé’s perfume, and the soft sounds of distant music drift through the clean, humid night air. Although the weather is generally more mild, the current season’s humidity is more than many of even the locals are happy to contend with, but Anakin, for all that it is new, prefers it to the aridity of Tatooine. Everything water fascinates him, even if what seems to him like waste is perfectly acceptable usage on a planet primarily composed of the resource.

Laughter chimes through the night, the strains of some string instrument, and he knows that they are nearing Idmena’s. It’s small, most of the seating exterior, made of a dark metal constructed in swirling designs. The grandmotherly owner, Idmena Shall herself, often sings traditional Nabooian love ballads to her exuberant customers. The mechanics of the SVEC are regulars, coming out in droves at least one night a week, though not always in groups of the exact same makeup.

The moment they see Anakin, a roar goes up from the corner containing his shift’s workers: Merdan and Geela, along with several others, many of whom he discovered, to his great surprise, are students. Next to Culture, Education is Naboo’s second most important institution. Learning to these people is everything, and they are all too happy to find guidance under someone with less refined experience; it affords new insights and techniques, and he’s gained a new trick or two from more than a few of them himself. Work on the moisture farm had always been so serious and for good reason. While what the SVEC does is important in its own right, there’s no more than a handful who take themselves and their work too seriously. Admittedly, he’d expected more of the latter. Stiff elitists who wouldn’t want anything to do with a transferred-in Security Lieutenant from the backwater Hutt-hive that is Tatooine. And yet, he’s been accepted immediately.

It was he who’d held back.

He’s trying to do so less now, though sometimes when he goes out, he regrets it. Most people, he’s sure, generally regret going out the next morning, though probably for varying reasons. At least he doesn’t have to deal with the hangovers.

“Skywalker! Hear you’re on that Jedi ship!” The voice belongs to a ruddy older fellow, Persh Gohsto, gregarious in his ways, who throws an arm around Anakin’s shoulders best as he can for being several inches shorter than Anakin, who discovered he’d grown another inch or so recently. “Did you talk to the Space Wizard? What’d he have to say?”

Anakin tries not to look quite so bemused by the turn of phrase, but must fail at it, because the table in front of him bursts into laughter. A drink, one of the tangier Nabooian juices which has quickly become his favourite, is pressed into his hand. “Well, frankly…” Anakin searches for something to say, covering it with a drink. “He smiled more than he talked. He seemed entirely too pleased with everything. I wonder if all Jedi are as genial.” Ironically, Mace Windu’s face hovers in his mind. Joining in their laughter, Anakin adds, “Makes you wonder just what he’s thinking behind that grin. Probably how much he’d really rather just go home.”

The statement is accepted with another round of laughter and friendly slap on the back. A chair screeches over the flagstone patio as it is pulled out for his use. Anakin’s not funny. Really. He’s not a words guy. Yet, every time he joins them, they look to him for commentary. He doesn’t understand why they want him to contribute, and he  _ definitely _ doesn’t understand why they laugh. They’re not laughing at him – no, he knows all too well what that looks like – which leaves only the possibility that they genuinely enjoy what he has to say. It’s either that or they’re all too loosened up by the alcohol to care how pathetic he is. Whichever the truth may be, once he’s contributed at least one semi-worthy comment, they let him be, content to have him in their company.

But the talk of Kit Fisto doesn’t end there.

“Wonder what he’s doing here,” another head mechanic from a different sector chimes in. “I haven’t heard anything about the Gungans.”

“Their representatives to the Capitol were just here yesterday, I heard.”

“Ah, it’s probably nothing. Just Jedi talk to throw us off the real trail. Who knows with them.”

It goes on for a little while, but fed with nothing besides speculation, the talk rather quickly dies away in favour of other talk. But while his colleagues have moved on, Anakin does not. The curiosity from before returns with a vengeance, and suddenly their gossip makes more sense of his own suspicions than anything else.

He keeps mostly quiet the rest of the night, which is far from odd – certainly no one bothers him over it – and when he goes home, he exits with what he’s heard termed a ‘Corellian goodbye’; that is, quietly and without notice. The walk home to Padmé’s apartments is spent lost in thought. When he gets back, he hooks up his long distance comm and dials in her Coruscanti address.

It’s bright and early there, but he knows her, and it’s to no surprise that she answers already dressed in full regalia.

“Ani? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you! What a pleasant surprise! How are you?”

“I’m good.” He is. Seeing her makes him even better. “Really good. How are you, Angel?”

“I’m alright too.” Face aglow, Padmé takes him in, looking him over carefully. Ever since she left, she’s been a bit almost over-protective, but Anakin thinks it's sweet. She must see something that she doesn’t expect though, because the glow fades and she looks at him hard. Really looks at him. “Ani, is everything alright?”

With her, nothing goes unnoticed. “Um, yes, I’m fine. Really. I was just curious. Has there been any trouble with the Gungans lately? Anything due to the war, or-or other reasons? Something that might require the senate’s intervention?”

“Trouble?” Even through the hologramme, her eyes light up with worry. “No! Nothing that I’ve heard of, and I  _ would _ have heard. That’s my job. Why do you ask?” 

Anakin opens his mouth. He’s ready to tell her everything, but a reassuring pulse from the Force stops him. Whatever the reason for the deception, it must not be something to worry about. “I heard some rumours today. I was just worried there might be some truth to them.”

“Well there isn’t. But I’ll speak with Jar Jar and the Queen anyways, just in case. This war…” she shakes her head. “It’s got everyone paranoid. All it does is make it more difficult to know the real threats when they appear.” She affects a heavy sigh. Anakin wishes he could reach out and brush the careworn expression away, but he can’t. His arms lifts anyways, in an aborted attempt. “Thank you for telling me,” Padmé continues, recovered. “Anyways, it must be quite late for you. Get some rest and I’ll comm you on your day off, okay? I’ll take the whole afternoon.”

“Sounds lovely. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Goodbyes said, they close the connection and Anakin finally heads to sleep, the vision of her radiant smile to sooth him into fair dreams.

In the morning, Anakin’s raring to go while most of his and the other crews are blinking heavily and groaning. Especially directed at him. Feeling a little mischievous, he whistles cheerily in a passable imitation of Artoo, grinning at them all in an exaggerated manner.

“Rough night?” he asks Gohsto who, bleary eyed, waves him off.

“Ah, shut it Skywalker…”

A round of laughter ensues.

He’s brought Artoo in with him to help him work on some of the finer technical aspects; it’s easier to have the trusty droid talk to the ship than to attempt to do everything without any direct input, and he spends much of the day listening to Artoo relay the ship’s communications in binary, arguing blithely with the sassy astromech over the finer points of  _ Aethersprite _ construction. Eventually, around midday, when he cranes his head back to yell up to Artoo, Anakin notices a pair of dark brown boots planted firmly beside the ship.

“Your droid is feisty. I like him, too.”

The boots step aside almost before Anakin begins to roll out from underneath on the dolly. Just as anticipated, the Nautolan Jedi is smiling down at him.

“Good day to you, Master Jedi.”

“Hello Anakin Skywalker. My ship is looking like new!”

Anakin wipes his arm over his forehead in an attempt to look presentable. “Just a few more adjustments and I’ll have her flying better than ever”.

“Better check all the systems before you take her out, Master Jedi!” Merdan calls out from across the way. “Skywalker likes to jack ‘em up.”

Fighting back a scowl, Anakin clambers to standing. He’ll get Merdan back for his betrayal later. Cleaning his hands off a bit on his pants first, Anakin pats the side of the ship. “Don’t listen to Merdan over there. She’ll be perfect. I guarantee you that.”

“Sure, if you want to move so fast that the Gs’ll kill you!”

Anakin rolls his eyes. Even though it’s impossible to tell, he’s pretty sure that Kit Fisto has just done the same. “I did make some modifications, but nothing that you would find detrimental or anything. I’ll even show you. Here-“ He swings himself up on the wing, and eagerly, the Jedi Master follows. Though he’s unsure just how versed in the particulars of spacecraft Fisto might be, Anakin gives him the specifics, along with a general indication of how it will alter –  _ better _ . How it will _ better –  _ the performance. Fisto chimes in once or twice, predicting Anakin’s train of thought. By the end, he gives a firm, satisfied nod.

“This is very good. The  _ Aethersprite  _ is already highly responsive, but it will be nice to have something which reacts more similarly to myself. Intuitive, Skywalker.”

“I’ll have her ready for you in less than half a standard hour. Hopefully that’s acceptable to you, because it’s the best we can do. Geela and Merdan are real troopers. They works twice as hard as anyone, and not a single bolt’ll be out of place, I assure you.”

Fisto’s eyes gleam. “Excellent. I have some questions for you. About the fighter you lent me.”

“Is something wrong with it?”

If Nautolans could blink, Anakin feels the Jedi would have. “No. Just some questions. I will show you.” His tone brokers no argument, regardless of how genially it is stated. Again, Anakin suppresses a scowl. No one is this nice without reason.  _ No one. _ Not even on Naboo. Especially not – Anakin thinks back to Mace Windu – Jedi. But without hesitation, he follows once more, to the turbo lift.

Inside, even after the doors close, there is silence. It’s an odd tactic, reeling him in with an unassuming nature and then trying to psych him out, but unfortunately, it works.

“If you’re going to ask a question, you might as well get on with it. I sincerely doubt you want to talk about the ship.”

“You suspected from the beginning.”

“Well, a little. Of course, I had to confirm your story with the Senator before I was sure that something was out of place. You’re not here about a disturbance among the Gungans. You’re here about me. Did you Master of the Order Windu send you?”

“The Council agreed that I would elect to approach you,” Fisto begins evenly. “I number among them.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. I know very little of your Order in practice. What I do know is mostly the product of childhood fantasy and rumours.”

“But you knew Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Shaking his head, Anakin huffs in exasperation. “Yes, so everyone likes to remind me. What exactly is it about Master Jinn that makes my having known him so significant? Perhaps you could enlighten me, for I would genuinely like to know.”

The turbolift stops, and the door should automatically open, but it doesn’t. Reaching out, if only a little, Anakin can feel the Force around it. Surprisingly, the knowledge doesn’t bother him.

“It is not that you knew him. Rather, it is that he knew  _ you _ .”

“Me?” Now he is surprised. “I still don’t understand.”

The Nautolan’s heavy brow lowers in a move that Anakin presumes is akin to a narrowing of the eyes. “No, I suppose you don’t. Perhaps it is better that you do not. You will not be bothered, in the future, if you do not wish to be. We did not want to make ourselves obvious to you if we could help it, but I did not  _ try _ very hard.” His grin returns widely at his own comment, as though amused by a joke only he has the knowledge necessary to understand. “As I am a member of the council and acting on their behalf for this mission, I speak for the council. Our questions are answered sufficiently enough by this visit.”

“Your ‘questions’?”  _ Curiosity, not fear, Ani. Never Fear _ . He can almost hear Qui-Gon speaking. “What does that mean?”

“Rest easy, Skywalker,” Master Fisto replies, giving a slight bow. “And May the Force be with you.”

The lift doors never open. Instead, without the press of a single button, it rockets back down to the maintenance hold, stopping to open there as if nothing untoward had ever happened. Undaunted, Kit Fisto walks out towards his ship, leaving Anakin standing where he is.

“May the Force be with you, too” he says rather belatedly, the Jedi too far away to hear him.

Later, after he’s left, Geela walks up, tools in hand to pack away for the evening.

“What was it the Jedi wanted to know?”

Anakin sighs. “I haven’t the slightest.” 

Geela shakes her head. “Space Wizards, Skywalker. Space Wizards.”

He thinks about the turbolift door. About the wave of consciousness. About cryptic words and lingering stares. About jumping straight up fifteen feet in the alleyway and landing on Padmé’s balcony. About balancing on the back of a shaak for the heck of it at Varykino. About floating Artoo up against the ceiling. About shattering windows and desert glass and Queens falling in love with slaves.

About a nine year old winning a podrace.

Anakin’s laugh – short and quick – carries an edge of hysteria to his bewilderment.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite significant portions of this chapter. Kit Fisto is just so charming, and it started to have weird vibes, lol.


	10. Ascendency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much easier chapter to write than the last. Had some more fun with the official Atlas in the process. 
> 
> I did cannibalize and re-purpose some ideas from previous au'd versions of this particularly preeminent event in Anakin's life which I've written in the past for "The Chosen Path", so it's a little self-derivative, but we can't continue forward with this story unless he surpasses this milestone first and there are only so many ways I feel it can go. I feel this is still unique enough to its other counterparts. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudos'ing and reviewing.  
> Please enjoy.
> 
> Mostly unbeta'd. Ish
> 
> PS don't miss the time jump - the war has been on for over a year now and we're in 21BBy - more like half way through - and Anakin is 21.

“For a Jedi, centering himself in the Force is the most powerful state of being,” Qui-Gon is saying. But Anakin’s mind is elsewhere, really.

“You always call me a Jedi, Teacher,” he muses, opening his eyes a slit from their meditativeness to catch any possible hint of expression on Qui-Gon’s ghostly face. “I really don’t think that’s an accurate assessment.”

Qui-Gon’s brows twitch, likely in amusement. Over the past year, Anakin’s gotten quite good at reading the subtleties of his expressions. It’s almost a game between them, Qui-Gon giving just enough for Anakin to find. Where Windu hid behind his suspicious glare and Fisto his smile, Qui-Gon hides behind no expression at all. No wonder Padmé finds it strenuous to work with them sometimes, though more than once he’s teased that politicians are not so very different. 

“You would be surprised, my padawan. Just because you are not at the Temple in training does not mean you are any less a Jedi.” There’s mischief colouring his tone, hanger on, Anakin knows, from the way he was in life. “You are learning the ways of the Force from a Jedi Master.”

“I’m rather skeptical that the Jedi would see our situation the same way,” Anakin replies, no longer bothering to keep up the pretense of meditation. “How many Jedi would consider a dead man a viable teacher?”

“Again, I think you will find yourself surprised.”

“You say ‘will’. Are you trying to insinuate something about the future?”

“Perhaps.”

“You Jedi.” It’s a teasing tone, even though Anakin means every last word. “You’re all the same. You all speak in riddles and everything you say amounts to a pile of sand, which is to say, nothing. You, Master Windu, Master Fisto. You all do it. I don’t couch my meaning in cryptic riddles, so it must follow that I cannot possibly be a Jedi.”

“Never assume anything, my Padawan.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Then all I will say is that the likelihood of remaining separate from them for very much longer is minimal.”

Anakin rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. Maybe he’s asking for it by being so smart with Qui-Gon, but alternatively, he _has_ gotten what he wanted out of it, so it’s a concession he’s willing to make. “Touché.” He offers. “You’ve got me. But what makes you say that? Will there be a battle here? If something is going to happen, I must warn Padmé.”

All the light of mirth leaves Qui-Gon. “No Anakin. I do not think the fighting will come to Naboo.”

“Then you believe I will go to the fight.”

“Perhaps.” Qui-Gon strokes at his chin habitually. “Perhaps not. None of us can say for certain what the future may bring. Not even one such as I.”

A new urgency rises within Anakin. “But I have. Three times, at least. My premonitions have never been wrong, Teacher.”

“Be wary of your dreams Anakin. Be wary of any and all things which are foreseen and the stake that you put in them. Knowing the future does not mean it is preventable. Do not let your desire to fix things make them worse for you or others. You of all people ought to be familiar enough with such a concept to understand.”

Even now, a year and some months later, it sickens Anakin to think about how the lights of their spirits had snuffed out. Can still feel its lingering intensity. “I suppose you’re right. I could not save them and I knew I couldn’t. But that will never be able to stop me from wanting to.”

“I know it is a lot to ask of you, Anakin. That it contradicts your very nature. Dreams are not always what they appear to be, and you cannot rely upon the fact that they will happen as you have foreseen, or that they will come to pass at all. Your dreams of your mother, for example. You saw her death. You told her not to go pick the mushrooms. She listened to you, and she yet lives now. But who is to say that, had she not listened, she would not still be alright? You interfered, and because of that, you will never know. You must learn to be alright with _not_ knowing, Anakin. That, of all lessons, will be a most difficult one to learn.”

The very insinuation that he could have opted to say nothing, to let his mother to her fate, stings, even though the possibility remains that nothing bad might have happened. “I would never purposefully let my Mother come to harm.”

“No, you would not. But even if you had said nothing, done nothing to prevent it, could you not still have used the dream to be vigilant against a potential threat?” Qui-Gon parries deftly, leaving Anakin at a loss.

“Well, yes, but if you did that, wouldn’t that just be a sure fire way of indulging paranoia?”

“Paranoia is unfounded, though it can be enhanced through such things. And that is why you must learn to let go.”

With a sigh, Anakin closes his eyes again, reciting the words as he’d arranged them himself. “ I know. I know. I control myself, and nothing controls me, but I cannot control the world, only the actions which I perform within it.”

“I am very proud of you, I hope you know that.”

The statement shocks Anakin out of the mantra. “What makes you say that?”

“Your path is hard.” Qui-Gon begins, and the look in his eyes is too close to sympathy for Anakin’s comfort, the implication too ominous. “It always has been. I hope it will not always be. But you have walked it admirably in the face of so much difficulty. It is not an easy thing to do. You are strong Anakin. And you are caring. And kind. All these things will serve you well, but all things must be tended in moderation. Do not let that caring and kindness run your heart sore. You must take care of yourself, or you will not be able to take care of others. Let your strength come from trusting in the Force. It will tell you when something is wrong. And you will know.”

“But Teacher, my dreams, my premonitions, are they not also from the Force?”

“Only with time and careful examination will you know. The Jedi have long been heralds of prophecy, but they analyze them before acting. I do not ask you to disregard what you see. Only to truly see all angles before you act.”

“Yes, Teacher,” Anakin says. “I understand.”

And he does, in a way. He does understand. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Some of what Qui-Gon meant becomes clear a week later when he wakes from a vision of an elegant lightsaber wielded by his own hand. The cylindrical weapon is capped by an asymmetric blade shroud emitter that slopes gracefully into the rest of the housing, the adjustment dial is capped in gold, and the grip is made up of a series of dark raised segments that look as though they would fit his large hands nicely. It’s beautiful, truly beautiful. He hasn't really given much thought to the Jedi’s weapon of choice, not since he was a child, at least, but like everything Qui-Gon says, the thought has stuck with him since last they spoke.

It’s still early morning, so he sets to work on a modification for Artoo – rocket boosters, though while he’ll ever need them Anakin’s not sure - falling into a meditation on the dream in the process.

When he would have occasion to use such a weapon, he’s not really sure, but by the time he’s finished with the last component, Anakin’s positive that the dream isn’t just the product of late-night musings on the veracity of his claim to Jedihood.

A while back, Anakin made friends with one of the forgers who works on commission for the SVEC, Yulle Dinval. The way he likes to tinker with Artoo, he finds he needs parts that he can’t get to his specifications without special ordering, and he isn’t about to waste the credits on that when he could just scavenge them from someone’s junk pile, like in days of old, or learn how to make them himself.

Dineé pointed him in the right direction and Anakin finds himself going to Yulle more and more ever since. He’d only messed about with the process of forging a little before deciding that was one aspect not much to his liking. Yulle’s forge is stifling, as befits such a profession, but she didn’t mind in the least when he backed out.

The first step, as with anything, is drafting the pieces, something Anakin is thankfully passable at. From memory of the dream alone, he sketches on flimsy the pieces he needs to build the housing and other exterior components, as accurately and to scale as he can, jotting down notes about his intended way of connecting the pieces, so she can make the adjustments necessary to manage such a thing.

Beyond that, the interior will be a simple matter of picking up the needed parts; cycling field energizers he can find stock and modify to fit and the rest will be mostly a matter of circuitry, the finer art of which he’s mastered by fiddling with the workings of his cybernetic arm.

What he doesn’t know is what to do about the blade itself. The power source will be unlike any other, he’s sure, but exactly what it is that generates and focuses the energy into a blade is beyond him to know. For that, Qui-Gon will be necessary, so Anakin figures he’ll put that question aside for another time. Except that ‘another time’ turns out to be a couple of nights later.

He’s dreamed of the saber every night since the first, seeing it more and more clearly each time, often waking the middle of the night to refine the sketches he’d reworked only the day before. But this dream is different. At first, he sees nothing but a blinding white field, the occasional soft whorl of sparkling light drifting through it. Even though everything is the same, he somehow understands that he’s moving forward. Eventually, a shape rises from the canvas of his surroundings. At first it’s nothing more than a pale grey against the backdrop, but it coalesces into a jagged series of mountainous formations. Though he’s never before seen snow, it suddenly occurs to him that that is precisely what surrounds him. It doesn’t _feel_ cold, even though Padmé’s told him as much. Winter in the mountainous regions can be bitter, even on Naboo, though it’s worse apparently on Alderaan.

The mountain takes first shape, cutting through the white-out of the world around it, and he realizes that it’s not a mountain at all. Or rather, it is a mountain, but it is also _more_ than a mountain.

It’s a series of caves, the entrance of which has been carved out and decorated. A tingle starts at the back of his head, expands across the base of his neck and over his shoulders with a shiver. The place vibrates with unadulterated power; eerily, Anakin is reminded of what it still is like to look too deeply within himself, to the place where the black hole resides. But there is no fear; he’s conquered that.

The Temple – he’s almost sure that’s what it is – rings and whistles the hollow music of an abandoned place. It is with great reverence that he steps inside. The white field is replaced by a shadowy black, but his feet take him deeper and deeper, where an unnatural light seems to emit forth. Blues and greens shimmer on the ceiling, on the walls, on the ground and he sees that they are crystals, rough, natural grown crystals through which that familiar power pulses. The light grows as he continues inward; where once only a few glowed here and there, they appear in ever larger clusters.

A small cluster, icy blue, catches his eye from where they find their home at a craggy angle of the cavern wall. Anakin reaches for them compulsively, but suddenly the light is blotted out from behind him. He turns.

From down an echoing corridor, an inexplicably giant shape, winged, eyes glowing the same icy blue streaks toward him.

That’s, of course, when he wakes up.

In his mind, three lingering words ring in the clear voice of his Teacher.

_Metellos._

_Ilum._

_Adegan._

He rents a starfighter from his own hanger for the trip. It’s costly, using up credits he was hoping to spend on a trip back to Tatooine to see his mother, but it’s necessary. And it could be worse. Having an in with the planetary senator has its perks, namely, that they trust him to bring it back. It’s fast; for some reason, he’s sure he’s going to need something that’s up to par – or at least as close as it can get – to his own reflexes. He plots the course with Artoo before requesting his time off, since he’s really not sure how long it’s all going to take. Luckily, the housing and exterior pieces are finished with enough time for him to pick them up before leaving. There’s a sense of urgency within him, though it’s not an anxious urgency, like he so often feels about people and places. It’s markedly different. Like someone is calling his name.

Both Metellos and Ilum, it turns out, are planets. The trip to Metellos runs eight days, which is better than he’d actually anticipated, considering it’s nearness to the core and all the obstacles that plotting a course must avoid. Ilum lies beyond the unknown regions in the Tingel arm of the galaxy’s spiral. It’s remote enough to be his frozen planet, and he’s not sure why exactly, but he’s positive that the journey must begin on Metellos and end on Ilum. It feels right, in that Force way that so many things just do, so he decides not to question it.

Just as he’s putting in the time, he gets a belated comm transmission from Padmé, asking if he can come to Coruscant for a bit. That makes him smile. Though he hates Coruscant, seeing Padmé is worth enduring the suffocating murkiness of the city-planet. He’s yet to go visit her, primarily because she prefers to come visit him on her home planet as much as he does (and her parents love him for it; she’s been back to Naboo more in the last year than she was for the previous two!), so he figures that it’s more than time for him to return the favour. She _wants_ to see him. It sends a thrill of strange pride through him that she terms it like this. The date she suggests is towards the middle of the next Nabooian month. From Naboo to Illum is almost three weeks, and it’s at least another week and a half from there to Coruscant, not including the amount of time he anticipates needing, which he’s rounded up on, just in case, so he returns her message in the affirmative, wishing her luck and informing her of an upcoming trip that will have him nearby come the agreed upon date.

Something tells him that this trip is private, so he keeps its true purpose from everyone, even Padmé, for the time being, puts in his time, picks up his parts and blasts out of the Theed Hangar later that day to the amicable waves of the people he has come to term his friends.

He will miss seeing their faces, feeling them in the Force every day, but the call tugs at him incessantly, and he turns his focus to his destination.

The plotted course requires a few reroutes to get to Metellos from Naboo quickly and safely, but he arrives on schedule in orbit above Coruscant’s palatine hued neighbour. Artoo’s scanners indicate nothing of great interest on the surface below. It’s a Type 1 Atmosphere, Terrestrial planet, covered in urban sprawl, the upper atmosphere is dotted with floating cities indicative of pollution problems on a non-gaseous planet.

Anakin gets an inkling that while this planet is his starting point, the planet itself is of little importance. With Artoo’s help, Anakin scans through the Nav. Ilum is a far flung planet, with little to no planetary interference in between, but various types of astrogeographic anomalies are present, and it suddenly occurs to Anakin what the point is.

Getting there is half the battle.

Eyes narrowing in delight as a thin smile spreads across his face, Anakin revels for a moment in the onset of a _real_ challenge, and then punches it.

Lightspeed has never felt more exhilarating.

The trip is arduous, requiring every last bit of his focus to get there unscathed, but he arrives in record time. Ilum hangs below him, patterned in swirls of white and the aquamarine he’s learned to associate with the chilliest of waters. He lets the Force guide him down, turning off the headset that communicates with Artoo. Anakin’s never spent quite so long immersed in the Force, or at least, not quite so completely. It’s strange, as though he’s more himself than ever before, and yet, less an individual than one part of a larger whole. The experience should be disconcerting, but it’s not. Not at all.

He lands on what seems to be an ancient stone terrace. As he pops the cockpit, he slings the bag of parts over his shoulder and pulls the warm cloak he’d purchased more tightly around himself, before setting out into the blizzard.

Strangely, Anakin’s not cold. As much as he loves flying, he always forgets how much he hates being in space. It’s freezing out there, and whenever he’s cold he can never seem to focus on anything other than being cold. It wasn’t that he was wishing for the relentless swelter of Tatooine by any means; he just wasn’t made for cold weather, and never would be.

So, Ilum should be his worst nightmare. But it’s not. He trudges through snow that’s up to the tops of boots in snow, where they end just below the knee, and the wind whips at his cloak and hood, but he doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t even register it.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before his vision comes to pass. From a higher cliff he spots the Temple, recessed back into a valley from which the mountains rise, and picks his path mindlessly down the decline. It is the Force which guides his footfalls to surety, the Force which leads him true.

There’s not a print to be seen at the base of the Temple, not that he’s looking. It registers subconsciously, a detail to be filed away later, but his inner self acknowledges the truth of the situation.

Anakin is utterly and completely alone.

The cavern is just as dark as he recalls. While the exterior is obviously carved by sentient beings, the interior is naturally formed. The halls are jagged and unevenly peaked, stalagmites and stalactites jut out of the rock haphazard, and the floors are pitted with ice and snow. Within, his eyes are useless, so he closes them. He does not need them.

He needs nothing but the Force.

The way is winding. Sometimes, he descends to the pits below. Sometimes he climbs fascia so steep he must use his hands to pull him up. It is all the same to Anakin. His muscles do not burn, his feet do not ache. Wherever it wills him, he goes. Only when a soft glow interrupts the unending darkness, does Anakin open his eyes. Much softer than the dream, the crystals glimmer slightly, though their colours are indeterminable in the black. He’s close now. Or closer.

The tugging, ringing pull grows still more urgent. _Nearer! So close now!_ He can hear the bright, incandescent cries, the yearning. It resounds within his chest. The beating of his heart increases. The light grows, grows , grows _-_

Dims.

Snuffs out.

A rumble echoes within the cave, from behind him and Anakin turns, slowly, to face the oncoming void.

Starless, lightless, it consumes everything in its path, a dead star. A black hole.

Planting himself firm, Anakin stands his ground. The drafts still and the dripping echoes cease. Even the rumble comes to an end.

Silence and darkness loom, long neck arching above him, wings circumscribing the ceiling, the walls.

Some mortal corner within his mind must logically fear, but it is stifled summarily. Anakin is filled with the Force, blooming with it. It wells like a pool in his chest as he names the beast before him.

Dragon.

It’s eyes are cold flame. It’s maw gapes open, swallowing down over him.

Blackness. And, in the blackness, two pale yellow-red embers. A wicked, sharp smile.

The presence of his Twin is familiar now, and his heart does pound frantically within his chest, the reactions of the flesh not stifled by the discipline of the mind.

It is Anakin who holds out his hand first, who reaches forward, who takes a step, the Twin mirroring him, instead of the other way around. They’re close, mere feet apart. The Twin’s voice is his own, naturally, though it sounds as hollow as the caverns of his dream even for the fervor with which it speaks.

 _You are alone,_ it jeers at him, full of malice _. Alone in the cold. Alone in the dark. Where is the fire to keep you warm? To keep you alive? Show us the fire. Draw it forth! Draw it forth! Where is your strength now?_

For the first time, Anakin feels the chill. At first, it is the mere annoyance of a chill, then, to his immense surprise the sensation grows. The air goes out of the cavern. It’s hard to breathe. He drops his hand back down to his side, feels himself growing smaller to conserve heat as it floods out of him as if fleeing in fear.

The void spectre’s hand reaches closer, taking a hold of him by the wrist. Though instinct tells him to pull away, he can’t. The grip _burns_. Worse than a thousand fires, the cold of the dead star twin eats away at his endurance, his will. Anakin feels himself slipping. Weak, he drops to his knees. The Twin kneels with him.

 _You are weak. Your heart is bleeding. Bleeding with love. But where is your mother? Your love? They are not with you. They do not care. They would be here if they did. They’re afraid of you. They’re afraid of what lives within you. They’ve seen it._ Anakin flinches involuntarily, holds back a whimper. _They know how it festers. The Darkness will eat up the light. The Darkness burns without flame. It cannot be snuffed. Cannot be destroyed. I will consume you. I will become you. You are weak. Only when you are me can you be strong._

The hand which the Twin holds is immobilized. Burbling like lava, the panic draws up within him as frost steals up his flesh arm, twines around his ankles and feet, up his legs to his knees in petrification.

_Alone._

_Weak._

_P o w e r l e s s . . ._

“I am not weak.” Anakin’s voice breaks, trembling, as he tries to believe what he does not feel. The frigid air robs his lungs of oxygen. His breaths come heavy and slow, a weight pressing down on him, and it takes all he has not to buckle beneath it.

“I am not… alone…” The Force is still there, he can feel it. It’s not gone. Not really. No, it is stifling in this place, and as long as he has the Force, he can never be alone. And as long as he has the Force…“I…am not…powerless…”

With effort, he closes his eyes on the mocking figure, focuses on the suffocating thickness of the Force around him and _pulls_.

When he opens his eyes, in the hand still held by his dark Twin, a tiny ball of white-blue light pulses with the beat of his heart. The fear washes away in the serenity of its glow, and he pushes it within him, willing it up his arm, through his body, cleansing the chill. The void spectre hisses in anger but holds tightly, its grip searing as it feeds poisonous veins of darkness into his arm, in effort to push back the new warmth.

“You cannot destroy me.” He says. Saying it makes it real. He is not dying. Not really. It cannot hurt him. “Without me, you cease to exist. You are a part of me. Without Darkness, there is no Light. Without Light, no Darkness. I accept you, but you do not control me. I control you. I do not need you.”

The warmth comes to a nexus within him, at the center of his being, rather than a physical place within his body and explodes out from him in waves. The void spectre screeches, letting go his hand as though to hold him pains it, and it retreats back into the supernova that is its prison.

“You will never go away, not really. And maybe, one day, I will need you. But hope it never comes to that.”

The unnatural silence is banished. The cave echoes with dripping water and whistling wind. A soft glow surrounds him.

The vision is over.

His physical eyes open. Before him, he holds his flesh hand outstretched, the components of his lightsaber hovering in perfectly arranged fashion around two shining blue crystals. It takes only the slightest nudge of the Force to bring the parts together as one.

Though the lightsaber is complete, it is the impact of the vision which supersedes the impressive realization of his design. For the first time in ever, Anakin is not only at peace with his situation, but also with himself. It is safe in this knowledge that he makes the journey back to his ship, to Artoo, Coruscant and Padmé awaiting.


	11. Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a two part-er. The first.  
> Things are amping up a bit. A few major characters make their first appearance, among other things. 
> 
> Also, thanks to my dear friend, Senor_Sparklefingers, who insisted Padme be sassy to Anakin about the shirt. You'll know the line when you see it. 
> 
> Unbeted mostly. 
> 
> Thanks for the reviews, and keep it up! They're my lifeblood in getting this done! Stay healthy and Safe and May The Force Be With You.

On the official Naboo landing pad on Coruscant, Anakin finds an elated Padmé waiting for him. He races from the ship, jumping down off the wing gracefully to catch her as she flings herself into his embrace. Burying themselves in one another, no words pass between them in these initial moments. It is enough to simply hold and be held, the physical touch conveying more between them than words could ever hope to do.

While the holocalls serve to tide them over for a time, it’s never enough. Though Anakin cannot count the time in hours, or ever by days, it’s been exactly too long since he held Padmé in his arms. A very precise calculation, to be certain.

Typho watches the perimeter resolutely. Though he can’t be positive, Anakin doesn’t know that the man still holds a flame for Padmé, which on his worse days bothers him a bit, and on the rest of the days barely even registers. It’s less because he thinks Typho will make a move – the man is far too professional, and knows well enough the state of things – and more that Anakin is somewhat ashamed by how little he sees of Padmé by comparison.

The reason for that is twofold: his own desire to avoid the Galactic Center, and Padmé’s incredibly busy schedule. Envy may be a petty emotion, but it is one Anakin is well acquainted with. Too bad for him – or perhaps all the better – rationality wins out. He can’t be envious of Typho because it’s Anakin's own damn fault he spends less time with Padmé than he’d like. Despite the swirling uncertainty that is pervasive on Coruscant, Anakin finds himself vowing, however silently, to come to her more often. It’s only fair of him to pull his weight in the relationship. He’s been only too happy to indulge her desire to come home instead.

Once they part, they kiss, a long, sweet press of lips, and then settle in beside one another, hands clasped, sides pressed.

“Hi Ani,” Padmé whispers, almost shyly.

“Hello my Angel,” Anakin whispers back, happy to play along. “Why are we whispering?”

All he receives by way of answer is a small shrug and a nervous smile. He can feel some emotion hovering around her, but the exact quality of it eludes him. Then, Artoo whistles behind them and he’s pulled away from his thoughts.

“I have to get Artoo, and my things, and then we can go home.”

Home, he says, because she is home.

One of them, anyways.

It’s not long before Typho leaves them at the door, content that Anakin will be her protector, even had Padmé not insisted that he take the rest of the evening off. Artoo plugs into a charging port and powers down for a rest while Anakin makes himself at home in her kitchen. She’s bought all manner of his favourite spices evidently in anticipation of his arrival, and sits at the counter on one of the elevated seats, leaning forward, chin resting on her folded hands.

“What is it?” he asks her between chopping up vegetables.

“Hmm?”

“You’re a little out of it, Padmé,” Anakin says, setting down the knife. Reaching across the counter, he runs a hand soothingly over the smooth skin of her arm. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Ani, everything’s alright.” Padmé sighs heavily, sounding anything but. She must see the skepticism in his face, because she grimaces a bit before continuing. “I mean, as alright as things get during wartime, I suppose. I’m tired, mostly. And happy, now that you’re here.”

“I’m happy to be here too, my love.”

A weak smile flits over her face, then broadens, and she leans in to kiss him sweetly. “You seem different. Settled.”

“I am,” he says, and finds he means it.

“It’s a good look on you. I like it.”

Content that her mind is in a better place, Anakin returns to dinner. He loves to cook. Padmé, he has discovered over their now quite intimate acquaintance, barely knows how. She’s spent so much of her life learning politics and having people to cook for her that boiling water has been known to be a disaster. Which is why, Anakin supposes, it’s a good thing his mother and Beru taught him so well. Cooking was, unfortunately for Beru, not a skill that Own had taken too.

While he works on the food, Padmé chatters aimlessly on in a political diatribe about things which are mostly inconsequential to Anakin. While many of the names of people and places are familiar to him, he can’t make any meaningful correlations between them. It's rather a lot like hearing about someone’s family members that you’ve never met, trying to remember which one is the aunt and which one is the mother-in-law.

Whenever Padmé gets like this, Anakin tries his best to make heads and tails of what she’s saying, mostly because he knows that it matters to her. It’s not that he thinks the war has no bearing on him – it’s rather quite the opposite – it’s just that he hasn’t had occasion or time to learn enough to keep up with what’s all going on where. Regardless of his actual comprehension, he nods at the appropriate times and a-has and m-hms whenever it’s called for. Padmé needs an unbiased, sympathetic ear anyways. She’s told him more than once that while she wishes he knew more about what was going on –  _ because it’s important! Anything happening in our galaxy affects us all,  _ she tells him – she has also admitted that it’s a nice change of pace to be around someone so disaffected by all the ‘bureaucratic shaak-shit’ she has to put up with from the rest of her colleagues, even if he tunes most of it out.

Anakin is happy enough to help. If she needs to vent, to get it all off her chest in the most unprofessional, infuriated manner possible, well, he’s certainly not about to stop her. She’s beautiful when she’s passionate, and if she’s passionate about  _ anything _ , it’s politics.

“That smells incredible, my love,” she tells him rather suddenly, in the middle of ranting about the hard nosed, unyielding Senator from Kuat. “Goodness how I’ve missed your cooking.”

It’s impossible to keep from smiling at the wistful way she speaks. “Do go on.”

“Ha, ha.” Padmé smirks. “I’ll tell you exactly how scrumptious it is when I’m putting it in my mouth. Actually, I have something to ask you. It’s part of why I hoped you could be able to come. There’s a senate ball and I was wishing that my white knight might come with me to save me from all the impossible people I’ll have to be polite to all night long? And maybe, if he’s willing, even keep me from having to dance with some of them?”

Anakin can’t help the look of surprise. “You want me at a Senatorial Ball?”

“Well, it’s actually a war relief fundraiser, but yes. I do.”

“I can’t dance.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m not fit for polite company.”

“That’s completely untrue and you know it!” she fires back. “But I  _ really _ wouldn’t mind if you decided not to be, for a change. Fit for polite company, I mean. If you could be just a  _ little  _ irreverent that would be fantastic, actually.” The wheedling tone of her voice is positively adorable. “I handle the imposing bit well enough myself, normally, but it won’t hurt that you're even taller than the last time I saw you. Believe me. I notice these things.”

She’s not wrong, of course. About how imposing she is. Or the fact that he’s grown another inch. Anakin hides a smirk by turning away to tend the tubers.

“You don’t have to come of course, I know you, Ani.” She’s starting to ramble. There’s a particular way she looks up and to the side when she’s about to. It’s just another thing Anakin finds completely endearing. “You’ll say ‘sure I’ll go!’ in that adorable way you do, and then the day of, you’ll change your mind because you’d much rather keep working on this project or that schematic or whatever improvement to Artoo you’ve made into your next brainchild, and then I have to remind you that you said you’d go and you try to wheedle out of it. There’s nothing wrong with that, obviously, I completely understand, because a lot of the time, if I didn’t have to go to things, I probably won’t either, but I’ve really missed you, and it’s just so much  _ nicer _ when you’re there with me-“

“Yeah,” he finally manages to interject. “because misery loves company.”

“ – so I figured I wouldn’t ask you until you got here –“

“So that I don’t have a chance to change my mind.” Anakin no longer bothers to hide his grin. “That’s right. I’ve got you figured, too. This works both ways, Angel.”

Padmé says nothing, only looks at him with wide, impossibly warm brown eyes.

It’s difficult, but he does his best to return the look with a straight face.

“I’d really like it if you would come,” she says, but quickly continues; “I mean, whatever you choose, I’ll understand of course, but I would really like a-a… I’d-“

“I’ll go, of course, Padmé,” he assures it. “It’s important to me to support you, Angel.” He takes the dish off the heat and turns to see her watching him with an altogether different expression. “Padmé? Come on, you’ve been off since I got here, and I don’t think it has anything to do with this Senatorial Ball. What is it? Is something wrong? Are you alri-“

“Ani, will you marry me?”

As surely as if he’d been socked in the gut a double hit from Sebulba, the air is knocked from Anakin’s lungs.

“What?!”

“Anakin,” Padmé takes a deep breath, fixes him in her stare. “I want you to marry me.”

And then, on top of it all, she holds out her hand, and in her palm is a simple burnished silver ring.

It takes all of half a standard second for him to say; “Yes.”

They’ve barely been there twenty minutes and Anakin is already distracted by the way Padmé’s new ring glistens on her finger. So he  _ definitely _ won’t be getting back to Tatooine anytime soon, but it’s worth it, because he is far from the only one mesmerized by the new adornment. It’s simple, of course, but Padmé insists that she’s more than happy with it, and Anakin believes her wholeheartedly. The ring is not the only piece of jewelry she’s wearing that was a gift from him: ever since they began their relationship, she’s worn the japor snippet he made for her beneath her stately regalia. Tonight, however, she wears it proudly displayed, almost more so than the ring, ironically. Anakin wonders if he should have bothered buying her the ring at all, what with the way she’s fondling the smoothly worn wood.

Regardless, she’s definitely making a statement. 

He’d asked her, after they were done kissing – and it was a good thing he’d taken dinner off the heat, or it'd probably have burned – he’d asked her what she was going to say, before she’d popped the question.

Furiously, Padmé had blushed.

_ I want to show you off. _

Well, she’s already more than achieved her goal.

Padmé helped him with the outfit, and he’s not exactly sure what all the components are called, but he’s been assured that they meet Senate standards. The trousers are black, fitted, and she let him wear his own black boots, which he’d kept from his Security uniform, after cleaning them, of course. At least he doesn’t have too many layers. The shirt she picked for him is of a matte fabric in vibrant, deep blue. Its cut is reminiscent of a formal military coat, with an asymmetric single lapel and a straight high collar about the neck which vees at the throat. He desperately wants to tug at it but the gleam in her eyes when she first saw him put it on keeps him from doing so. Over that, she’d given him a black capelet, single shouldered and falling about his knees, the sheen of which is opalescent, and matches the rippling colouration of her own dress. (It’s backless. And distracting). Frankly, he feels ridiculous, but together he senses that they make a striking pair.

While he hopes that most of the eyes are on Padmé, he knows that the opposite is true.

“Why is it that whenever I come to Coruscant, everyone always stares at me?” he asks her in a whisper through the smile he plastered on his face upon arrival.

“Because you’re worth looking at.” Padmé squeezes his hand. “Just be grateful I had some decorum and managed to restrain myself from finding you something that has a deeper vee.”

“Stop it.” Though he’s blushing, he makes it clear that his words are meant teasingly. “You’re embarrassing me, Senator.”

Squinching up her nose at the formal address, Padmé relents. “I wouldn’t have made you. I promise. Maybe at home…”

“Maybe at home, you can undo all these little coat buttons yourself.”

It’s her turn to flush, rosy colouration spreading down her neck and over her shoulders. He’s about to remark on it when he suddenly feels a soul deep chill overtake him. From one of the interior rooms, double doors open and a group of three sentients step out: A male Chagrian in elaborate dress, a female Umbaran, and a male Human, innocuous looking between the two others.

“Who is that?”

“Hmm? What?” Padmé followed his gaze. “Which one?”

“The one in the middle. The Human.”

Ever so slowly, as though in disbelief, she turns back to him. “Ani, please tell me you’re joking.” She waits, but he has nothing to add, so he waits patiently for her to believe him. “Anakin,” her voice is almost urgent. “Anakin, that's the Supreme Chancellor.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Really, Anakin, I know that you’re not interested in politics, but I can’t believe that you don’t- wait, what?”

“I don’t like him.”

Something is wrong. Off. It’s utterly disconcerting, so Anakin drags his gaze away, turning to lean a little lazily against the high top table they’ve been standing beside.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Oh good. He’s been getting on my nerves lately, but you can’t be rude to him.” As she goes on, her voice grows quieter. “That one’s off limits, unfortunately. He is the Chancellor. And a Naboo besides. It’s made things…uncomfortable for me lately. I don’t know where his head is at, but he’s hardly the staunch Senator I succeeded.”

“Well we’ll just have to avoid him then, especially since only one of us has the self-control to stick to…what was it you said before? ‘Decorum’?”

With a swat of her hand, she lightly hits at his metal arm. “Ani!” she chides, but there’s no real heat in her tone. “We’ll talk more about it later, now that you know.”

“Alright.”

He’s bored. He meets several other senators. One from Chandrilla, another from Ryloth, and finally, in a most welcome change, Padmé’s close friend the Viceroy of Alderaan, Bail Organa, who congratulates them sincerely on their engagement. A few more less desirable individuals later, Anakin’s really starting to wish he could hold his liquor, when Padmé’s face lights up again, and she’s practically tugging him along where their arms are linked.

“Master Kenobi!” she calls out, and Anakin’s blood chills for the second time that night, though for a completely different reason. “Master Kenobi, is that you?”

“Ah! Senator Amidala.” A pause, an incline of the head. “I know, I know.  _ Padmé _ . It is ever so wonderful to see you.”

Anakin misses her reply.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Qui-Gon’s apprentice.

His auburn hair is in that middling place between long and short, falling in little wisps over his forehead and around his ears, and a rather distinguished looking beard hides the line of his jaw. Though his blue eyes sparkle to see Padmé, Anakin notes the tension lines on his forehead, the tiredness which hangs about him like the cloak he wears. He’s garbed traditionally – from what Anakin understands, the Jedi never seem to wear much beyond this general uniform – and at his belt hangs a rather fine looking lightsaber, made for someone with different hands, of course, but still a beautiful piece of armament.

“-my eyes deceive me or is that an engagement ring I see sitting rather delicately on your finger?” Anakin hears the Jedi saying as he refocuses himself.

“It is. Obi-Wan, allow me to introduce my fiancé, Anakin Skywalker.” The Force begins to roil between them as Kenobi’s pleasant expression dissolves into something more consternated. “I believe though you two have never before met, you are familiar with one another?”

“Anakin Skywalker…” His name on Obi-Wan’s lips is the ghost of years past, and an uncomfortable pause takes up residence among the trio.

“My sincerest apologies on the passing of your late Master, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Anakin makes the peace offering. “He was a great man and I owe him much.”

“Yes…” But Obi-Wan’s look of perturbation has not lessened. “I am glad that you…made it off Tatooine.”

Anakin bristles.  _ Coreworlders, _ he thinks with disgust, even though the man seems sincere. Anakin’s already false smile thins and the storm builds, electric. “How very diplomatic of you,  _ Master _ Kenobi.” It would be difficult not to pick up on the meaning of his emphasis, the air between them charged, static, though not aggressive. Something is happening, but Anakin’s not sure what. Politic as ever, Padmé intervenes before the Jedi can find an appropriate response, her hand gripping tightly on Anakin’s arm.

“Anakin, I may have asked you here under the pretense of being discourteous to other people on my behalf, but I assure you Obi-Wan is not one of them.”

“Well, I was being discourteous on  _ my  _ behalf this time,” he shoots back rapidly, hackles still raised.

Kenobi snorts. “You asked your fiancé to join you so he could be  _ rude  _ to people who displease you?” It’s his peace offering in turn, though it does not completely deescalate the situation. It is, however, a start.

“I’m more than happy to do it.” Anakin’s reply is a threat in its own way, and he withholds the rest of his judgement, waiting to see what Kenobi will do.

The Jedi looks between them, pushes a smirk. “Oh that’s  _ too _ good, Senator. You are truly ruthless. An excellent move indeed.” The grin falters a little, imperfect. “Anakin, I am sorry.  _ My _ sincerest apologies for the insensitive phrasing.” The apology is accompanied by a rather pointed look, one which indicates further discussion, perhaps at a later point, and Anakin realizes that this Obi-Wan Kenobi is as much a Master of the political arena as he is undoubtedly a Master of the Force.

“Apology accepted.” Anakin breathes deeply, letting the storm dissipate. Padmé’s grip relaxes. “For the record, I’m glad I made it off Tatooine, too.” 

“I can only imagine. Please, I fear I’ve gotten us off on the wrong foot. Perhaps we could speak…in a more exclusive location; the veranda?”

“Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of my beloved.” Anakin holds tightly to Padmé’s arm. “You know one another well enough, Master Kenobi, surely you don’t mind.”

A tight expression pulls at the Jedi’s sparkling eyes. “No I find I rather don’t. It’s quite crowded here. And hot. The Senator will undoubtedly wish to join us for some fresh air. But first, drinks. Proceed; I’ll catch up with you.”

He bows before them slightly, a little more deeply than Anakin’s seen from other Jedi, but then, they are in the presence of a renown Senator, and stalks off, his cloak billowing out behind him.

“Ani-“

“Everything is fine, Padmé. Let’s go get some of that Fresh air.”

Hesitantly, Padmé nods and together they cross the room, turning heads as they pass. Anakin holds the door for her, using it as an opportunity to survey the room, and notices in his quick once over, that the Chancellor’s eyes flit between where they stand and the back of Master Kenobi where he stands at the bar, waiting on his drink.

The moment is over as quickly as it’s begun, and Anakin wastes no time in sweeping through the door behind his future wife, letting it fall shut with a pneumatic whoosh behind him.

“Anakin what’s going on?” Padmé practically jumps on him once it’s sure that no one can hear them.

Heavily, he sighs. “I don’t know. Just a feeling. The Force, maybe, trying to tell me something. Master Kenobi must have felt it too.”

“You looked like you were ready to pounce. I know that Coruscanti folk can be a little uncomfortable with…with…that  _ I _ can be uncomfortable with admitting that there’s still slavery in the galaxy when we ought to be doing everything we can to put an end to it and that you-“

“Padmé, it’s not really about that, though I appreciate you’re looking out for me. It’s more. Something else. Something underlying. I don’t know. Like two magnets drawn together, but with something preventing them from meeting.” Grasping the railing of the balcony, Anakin closes his eyes against the wind. It’s always windy on Coruscant. “It’s something important. I know that much. And that’s all.”

“Thank you, for trusting me with this.”

He turns, eyes wide and earnest, and takes her hand in both of his, drawing it up for a kiss. “I trust you with everything that I am. Especially this.” He wishes he didn’t have to break the moment, but he does, seeing Kenobi coming. “The Chancellor was watching us. And Kenobi. And speaking Kenobi-“

“Ah, hello. Sorry, just took a moment. Drinks?” He offers two slim flutes out to them, holding in his own hand a tumbler of Corellian whiskey, considering the pungent aroma. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted…”

“This is fine, thank you.” Padmé, to Anakin’s pleasure, takes both and downs one, setting it aside on the railing, missing the slight raise of Kenobi’s brows at the sight. Anakin, unable to help himself, smirks, covering it with a cough. When Padmé turns back to them, she’s holding the second flute securely, making no move to pass it on as Kenobi surely expects, making the whole thing even more hilarious in light of the situation. If he didn’t know any better, Anakin would think she was doing it on purpose.

“Well. Now that we are relatively more secluded…” Kenobi moves to the side, away from where he can be easily seen through the transparisteel door. “I am sorry for the seriousness of the inquiry I must make, but you have been to the Temple, have you not? I was told that you had asked for me.”

“Yes, on Padmé's suggestion. I was looking for advice.” Anakin bites his lip. “I can only guess at what else you were told about me.”

“Well, you were rather the talk of the Temple. Something of a gossip point for the Padawans and the Knights alike. Though the Masters are little better at hiding their interest, to be honest. You caused quite a stir.”

“All I did was show up.”

Kenobi blusters. “That may be, but I think you lack an understanding of just how much of an impression you make on Force-sensitives.”

“Master Fisto says that I… ‘glow brightly’.”

“You’ve met Kit Fisto? When?”

“Something of a year ago, I think. He stopped on Naboo to have his fighter worked on. I’m a member of the Naboo SVEC, that is, the Engineering Corps. I’m a head mechanic. I got the feeling that his stop over had little to do with repairs or the supposed plight of the Gungans – for which Padmé never did find any substantiation, by the way – and a little more to do with me. He told me he spoke for your Council when he said that I wouldn’t be bothered anymore.”

A quick glance at Padmé from his peripherals reveals to Anakin that she’s watching with rapt attention, but it’s Kenobi’s reaction he’s far more interested in. The Jedi rocks back on his heels. “I do wonder why they sent him. Probably because of his particular talents in feeling out situations and people. He’s certainly never been the subtle type. And the Council does tend to prefer subtle.”

“And you…are subtle?” Anakin probes. Unsubtly.

“No.” Much like Qui-Gon is wont to do, Obi-Wan strokes his finely trimmed beard. “No. This has nothing to do with the Council, though I do admit to being a member. Recently elected. When all was happening, I was on the front. I’ve only just returned home, so any news of you at all is quite fresh for me. I was not informed that I’d been sought after when you originally arrived. Which I did find to be…intriguing. To say the least. Though I presume the Council’s interest in you has much less to do with me and more to do with-“

“The Shatterpoint.”

When Anakin drops the word, silence falls in its wake.

Obi-Wan heaves a deep breath. “Indeed. Yes. Yes indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also thank Senor_Sparklefingers for forgetting the difference between calves and thighs, and thus the existence of "Anakin Thighwalker" 
> 
> I invite you all to perish with me.


	12. Convergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anakin and Obi-Wan just really get to me, okay? 
> 
> Well, I made the deadline for posting - it's still 'today' where I am, or rather, it's evening. But I had a lot of work to do. Regardless, here it is! Unbeta'dish. 
> 
> Thank you for you reviews. I appreciate them more than you can know.

Anakin and Obi-Wan stare ceaselessly at one another. Padmé has left them of her own accord, with a whispered word to Anakin that she’d be with Senators Organa and Mothma when they’re done, as if she instinctively understands that though Anakin will share everything with her later, this moment is somehow not meant for her.

Initially, Anakin is sure that Obi-Wan will immediately begin questioning him – about the Shatterpoint, about the Temple. About anything, really.

But he doesn’t.

Obi-Wan’s drink sits forgotten on the railing. His focus is elsewhere now.

The purpose of their stares are different. Anakin’s is one of anticipation; Obi-Wan’s is not. This is the level gaze of an acute observer, someone who hopes to find something in what he is looking at. It is not the passive gaze of a bystander, nor the expectant gaze of someone evaluating the object of their view. It’s a deep, penetrating sort of look, not unlike the one that the Supreme Chancellor was giving the three of them only a little while ago, though Obi-Wan’s doesn’t chill Anakin to the bone.

What surprises him most is that Kenobi looks away first, turning to stand with his back to the festivities inside.

“He wanted to go back for you. He was insistent about it. My Master had never been…well he was hardly what one might call a ‘traditionalist’, if you will.”

 _It’s Qui-Gon_ , Anakin realizes. _He’s telling me about Qui-Gon._

“He was well respected as a Jedi,” Kenobi continues. Anakin senses a ‘but’. Just as anticipated, it arrives moments later “But he and the Council rarely saw eye to eye. There is, after all, no accounting for personality. He was the best Master I could ever have hoped for, but I never approved of the way he flagrantly disregarded the Council. I was, oh, little older than you are now, I would imagine. Losing him made me feel younger. I…I wasn’t ready. I don’t know if anyone is really ever _ready_.” Kenobi sighs heavily, lost in the past. What he’s saying…it’s stunning, really. It’s personal. Acutely personal and hardly what Anakin anticipates. “I killed the Sith who killed my Master. I don’t know if you were ever told…if you even know what a Sith is. Do you? Know what a Sith is?” Curious eyes find him once again, but the spark is the glisten of unshed tears. Anakin’s brow furrows.

“No.”

“A Darksider. A person who uses the Force for their own evil ends. He hounded my Master and I. We battled him, but we were separated…” Even now, Anakin can sense heartbreak in the Jedi before him. He commiserates; if it were his mother… Anakin puts the thought aside. It’s _not._ It will never be. “I lost him, but it was my duty to nullify the Sith threat. I still don’t know how I managed it.”

“But you did.”

“Yes.” Kenobi’s voice shakes. “I did. And when it was done, I went to my Master.” That same strange buildup in the Force tremors between them and Anakin braces himself subconsciously. He’s still not ready for what comes next.

Kenobi sucks in a wavering breath. The corners of his mouth twitch.

“His dying breaths were spent speaking of you.”

Anakin cannot help it. He takes a step back, blinks. It’s strange, talking in the past tense about Qui-Gon, when he speaks to the teacher so frequently. He had intended to tell Obi-Wan, but now, Anakin wonders at this course of action, when the wound of Qui-Gon’s loss is still so raw within him.

“He begged me to – to train you.”

Now, Anakin is truly taken aback. The words rush out of Obi-Wan almost like a confession, and Anakin can see the tension fall away from the Jedi’s shoulders.

“He begged me to speak to the Council. To retrieve you. To train you as my own Padawan, as he had intended.”

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

“You feel guilty.”

Obi-Wan startles at Anakin’s words. “Pardon?”

“We’re standing here today, meeting for the first time,” Anakin says. “You said you were glad I wasn’t on Tatooine any longer. Qui-Gon’s last wish was that you train me, but that obviously didn’t happen. Guilt. Earlier…you feel guilty that I remained on Tatooine all those years, presumably a slave.”

The aching look Obi-Wan gives him confirms it, though he doesn’t think Obi-Wan means for it to be so obvious. He senses the question even as Obi-Wan opens his mouth.

“Four years. I know you’re wondering. I’ve been free for four years. The best years of my life.” Shuddering, Obi-Wan composes himself. Anakin thinks that the Jedi is forcing himself to keep looking, and uncomfortable with the thought, it is Anakin who turns away. “When you’re-“ The words choke away, and Anakin swallows the lump in his throat, picking at the edge of his sleeve. “When you’re a-a-child,” he settles on, and senses both himself and Kenobi relax in the Force. “And a-“ he heaves a breath. “And a slave, the dichotomy tears at you. The world is big, and vast, and incredible. And there’s _got_ to be more.” Anakin presses his eyes shut fiercely. “You deserve more. Your Mom deserves more. They all deserve more. And you know it. You know it with your whole entire being. You…you burn with it. And it either consumes you or it doesn’t.”

The silence would be deafening if Coruscant wasn’t naturally a loud place, even in the most private of settings.

“And you?” Kenobi asks, his voice so soft it’s nearly lost in the rush of wind and the unending speeder traffic.

“I don’t know.” The little boy he was feels so very far away, so distant from the person he is now. “I’m still figuring it out.”

There’s a soft pressure in the Force, something the likes of which Anakin’s never felt before.

It’s Kenobi. He’s sure of it.

“I should have defied them,” Obi-Wan says. “The Council. I should have held to my promise. I swore to Qui-Gon I would train you, and I broke that promise. I wonder…when I made it, I wonder if in that moment I ever meant to keep it at all, or if I was just trying to-to make his passing easier. I think I would have promised him anything in that moment. Breaking that promise is my great shame. I am sorry. No apology can come close to making up for what you lived through because of me. I was still such a child. I failed my Master. And I failed you. And I think…I think I failed myself. I’ve known it to be true for a long time, but I think I am only just now seeing it to be true.”

When Anakin looks to him, the man’s head is hung, judgement resting around his neck like a chain. Irrationally, it incenses Anakin, who shakes his head vehemently before he even knows what he’s doing.

“Don’t slave yourself to a guilt that isn’t yours to bear.” The words tumble from his lips in a fervor, so much so he surprises himself. “What would you have done?” he cries, indignant. “You’re beholden to your Order. If you disobeyed them, what resources would you have had to free me on your own? Nothing substantial enough for any plan you could have concocted to work, I assure you. I was _not_ _cheap property._ ” He spits the phrase, still hearing it resounding in the greasy Toydarian’s tones. “No, Obi-Wan, I don’t hold you responsible for my circumstances. No one is responsible but the slavers who captured my mother in the first place, and the owners who bought me. Besides, you weren’t the only one who would have freed me given the chance. Padmé tried too, once, and that came to nothing. Qui-Gon wouldn’t want you to punish yourself either. I am here. I am free. You’ve repented enough for what you term your sins. Let them go.”

“You sound like him, you know.” Obi-Wan’s eyes are haunted when Anakin meets his gaze in surprise. “Qui-Gon. You sound just like him. He was forever bemoaning my inability to keep my mind in the here and now. Where it belongs. It seems I’ve learned nothing over the years, apparently. Where once I would have been your teacher, it seems I am now your student. Your experiences have given you great wisdom.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply had a good teacher, too.”

A crease appears in Obi-Wan’s forehead. “Perhaps.”

“Well, I must say, none of this was what I anticipated would come from meeting you.”

“No indeed.”

“But it feels right,” Anakin insists, staunchly. “There are a lot of things I’d like to share with you, but I’m not sure this is the best place.”

“No. You’re quite right. And I’m sure that the Sen- that your fiancée is waiting for you anxiously. We wouldn’t want anyone to think she’d been abandoned.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” Anakin lifts his hand, flexing his fingers to feel his ring there, a new and reassuring weight. Like Padmé holding his hand in her own, even when she’s not there with him physically. Instinctively, he smiles. “I’ll be on Coruscant a little less than a week longer. If your schedule permits, perhaps we can speak further on these other topics.”

Kenobi nods. “Yes. I agree. Perhaps at the Senator’s apartments? I don’t know how you’d feel about congregating in the Temple, though I assure you that you are welcome there as my guest indiscriminately.”

“Your guest? You’re not asking as an agent of the Council? Master Fisto assured me when last we met that I wouldn’t be disturbed again.”

If Obi-Wan is surprised to hear that the Council has been keeping tabs on Anakin, he doesn’t show it. “I am asking now not as a member of the Council, but as someone who hopes to be your friend.”

A loaded statement if there ever was one. Anakin sighs. “I’ll think about it. I can give you my comm code and when you are free you can contact me and I’ll let you know how I’m feeling about it. My guess is that your schedule is a fair bit busier than my own,” Anakin continues. “Padmé and I don’t really have anything planned. She knows that I don’t care much for Coruscant, and the only reason I’m staying is to be here with her.”

With a nod, Kenobi agrees. “I will contact you then when I am able.”

“It’s been…interesting.” Anakin says, and after a moment’s deliberation, holds out his hand. “But I’m glad to have met you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

There’s no hesitation when the Jedi takes his hand. “And I, you, Anakin Skywalker.”

Just as their hands fall apart, a look crosses Obi-Wan’s face, a flash of curiosity on his face. “What-is that a lightsaber?” His eyes are glued to the place where Anakin has concealed the cylinder beneath his capelet. Or well, _thought_ to conceal, Anakin thinks with a grimace. “Perhaps,” Obi-Wan continues with a steady breath, and a tinge of almost exasperation. “This is one of those things which we can discuss at a later date?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Very well then.”

And with that, the Jedi’s perfect unimpeachable persona falls back into place as he heads back into the ballroom chamber, as gracefully as if he’d only stepped out for a moment’s fresh air. Anakin wonders if he’ll ever be like that.

He barely conceals a snort.

_Doubtful._

All that night, with Padmé’s chestnut curls splayed over his chest, her soft breaths leaving him with goosebumps. It’s a serene image, but Anakin cannot sleep. He cards through her hair soothingly, watching the moonlight and the blinking of speeders flashing by as they catch on their matching rings, on the worn metal of his cybernetic arm, their gleam like stars reflecting on the lake at Varykino.

His thoughts dwell on the Senatorial Ball.

Coruscant is cold, but even reminiscing upon that moment when the Chancellor entered leaves him almost as frozen as on Ilum. Not even Padmé’s closeness warms him. The man had been as gregarious and falsely polite as every other politician thrust into the arena – including Kenobi, whom Padmé told him afterwards is the Jedi’s “Great Negotiator” – but his overt kindness, an almost grandfatherly like demeanour still leaves Anakin unsettled.

They’d only met briefly after he returned from the conversation with Kenobi to Padmé’s side. In simperingly sweet words he’d congratulated her on their engagement and queried about Anakin’s employment and future prospects, commenting on how wonderful it was to have someone so famous in Naboo’s recent history in line to wed the Senator whom he’d saved as Queen.

In short, all the things Anakin despised having talked about. Like he was being observed, marked down on some sort of invisible checklist. Except, where he usually felt that those surveying him decided he’d come up short, he got quite a different feeling from the Chancellor.

_“Yes indeed. We will watch your career with great interest.”_

Anakin had to try hard in that moment to keep from scoffing, but nothing stops him now, in the privacy of his bedroom. What career? He fixes Nabooian starfighters. Helps build new ones.

He’s not special. Well, not in any way that should be obvious to the Chancellor. Not in any way that is feasibly possible for the Chancellor to know. Maybe it’s just another one of those placating things that bigger mightier people like to say to those they look on like bugs, but it hadn’t felt that way. Not at all.

“Ani, I can hear your brain whirring in my sleep,” Padmé grouses groggily, her fingers flexing into his side as she burrows into him. “What’s wrong.”

“Just thinking, Angel.”

“Mmm. What about?”

“Something at the ball didn’t feel right. Something was off and it has to do with the Chancellor.”

Padmé sits up. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it?”

He nods. “At first I thought maybe it just had to do with me not liking Coruscant. It’s weird here.” He wrinkles his nose. “Imagine if you went to a planet and all the water was a fuzzy grey colour and even though they told you it was clean, it just doesn’t look or taste right. That’s what Coruscant is for me.”

“In the Force,” she confirms.

“Yeah.”

Huffing a bit, Padmé resituates herself so that she’s propped up on one elbow, her free hand resting over his heart, fingers twisting senseless patterns into his skin. “That means something’s wrong here, doesn’t it.”

She doesn’t ask it like a question. She says it like a truth.

“Yeah. But I don’t know what.”

“Well, you’ll be seeing Obi-Wan before you leave, right?”

He nods. Another thing he’s stuck on.

“Then tell him Ani. Ask him what he thinks.”

“I plan on it. I’m just…Kenobi mentioned something called the Sith. Have you ever heard of that?”

The hand on his chest stills abruptly. “Yes. I remember the one I saw, on Naboo. The Zabrak who fought and killed Master Jinn. And who was killed himself by Master Kenobi.”

“Darksiders. People who use the Force for evil,” he repeats. Against him, Padmé shivers.

“I don’t like this talk, Ani. I don’t like it at all. And I like even less that you think it’s necessary. What do you think the Sith have to do with what you feel here on Coruscant? Do you think-“

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough to _think_ anything, not really. Obi-Wan asked me if I’d like to see the Temple. Well, he didn’t really ask me that. He invited me to talk there. I don’t know. I just…have a lot on my mind.”

“That’s understandable, my love.” She lays back down, nestles into the crook of his arm and then reaches for his hand to thread their fingers together. “You have time to think. Right now you should be sleeping.”

“I know. I _want_ to.”

“But you can’t.”

Instead of answering, Anakin just nods. He feels the gentle press of a kiss on his chest. He’ll never tire of how it feels to hold her. To be loved by her. He can’t wait to send the datachip with the latest holojournal entries on it to his mother, so she can hear about their engagement. She’ll be ecstatic. He just knows it.

“Ani?”

“Mhm.”

“Where were you before Coruscant?”

It’s the _last_ thing he expects her to ask, and it takes him a second to recover. “Not Naboo,” he answers evasively. “Why’d you ask?”

“Artoo was complaining about _snow_.”

A laugh bubbles its way out of Anakin’s chest; the way she says the word, as though the prospect of him and snow together in one place is next to impossible. Normally, she wouldn’t be wrong.

“Anakin,” she says very seriously. “I know how much being cold disagrees with you…”

“My Angel, have I told you how much I love you lately?”

“Maybe. But I will never tire of hearing it again, my Love.”

Peace descends on the room. It’s wonderful, how she’s always so content to let him go at his own pace. Pressure has never agreed with him, even though Anakin knows sometimes that he needs it. There’s no real reason not to tell her. It’s good practice, after all, for the conversation he’s going to have in a short while with Kenobi.

“I had visions. Of myself. I was on a planet called Ilum. I built a lightsaber.” He doesn’t know why he’s never mentioned Qui-Gon to her. It’s not as though she’d think he was crazy. But the hour is late. Maybe after Kenobi is told. Maybe then.

The Jedi should know first. He deserves at least that much.

“A lightsaber?!” Padmé is right and properly awake now, sitting up again. Alarm is written in her expression. “Why would you need a lightsaber?”

“I don’t know. But I saw it. So…I went to Ilum and I built it. Just as I’d seen. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced, Padmé. I had visions there…” He doesn’t know where to begin. “You said it yourself when I came back that I’m different. What happened there changed me, Padmé. I don’t know exactly what’s different yet, but while the galaxy’s going insane, I actually feel…I don’t know. At harmony? With myself?”

“Was it like in the desert?” she asks, breath bated.

“Sort of. The place I went, there was a Temple there. Old, older than anything I’ve ever seen. And it was full of these crystals. The Force was so strong. Like everything in the Temple was saturated in it. I don’t think anything like what happened that one night will ever happen again. No more accidents, Padmé. There’s no more turmoil. It all just…settled. I guess.”

“Well I’m glad for you,” she says, reaching out to smooth at his hair. “I was worried for so long that you were unhappy. All this talk of the Force… I just wish I could do more to be there for you. To help you. I’m sorry.”

“No, my Love. There’s no need to apologize. How can I fault you? I barely know what I’m doing myself. I run on instinct most of the time. Just being here to listen to me helps more than me being alone with my thoughts. I just hate to burden you.”

“No, Anakin.” Padmé’s voice is firm and the glint in her eyes is fierce. “You’re not a burden to me. Never. I love you. I’m here for you, even when I don’t understand what you’re going through. You’ve supported me and the goddess isn’t the only one who knows about your mediocre take on politics.”

She’s trying to make him laugh, and he knows it. That doesn’t stop her from succeeding.

“Ani, this is what married people do. Now. We can talk more about this tomorrow. And I want to see my handsome fiancé’s beautiful lightsaber, too. But you need sleep, and I’m going to see that you get it.”

The smile that grows on his features doesn’t have to be coaxed into existence. Goodness, but he loves her spirit and determination.

“As my Lady commands.”

“I command!” she replies, ignoring his smirk.

They settle back in, with sleep not far away. Night is for holding her, and dreaming of good things to come. Worrying about the future can wait until morning, when light is present to chase away the dark.


	13. Epicenter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter almost not brought to you in time, courtesy of staying up till 4:30 am reading other fanfic and a 2 hour long bop/sing along session to a 3 week old Backstreet Boys concert, which is full of still certifiable /jams/ which I attempted to write to. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

It’s like déjà vu, standing in front of the Temple’s heavily restricted public access doors. The difference is that this time, not only does Anakin know what to expect from being there, he also knows that he is expected. That the Padawan at the desk will know his name when he arrives. Will know that he is a direct guest of Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.

What Anakin doesn’t know is what they will do when they see him.

Taking a deep breath and recalling Padmé’s reassuring words from earlier, Anakin steps into the Temple. It’s different this time. The subtle warmth coils around him, but he doesn’t feel tethered, just cradled. The Force works in tandem with him now, instead of in opposition with him. But it isn’t the Force that’s changed, he knows. It’s him.

It’s silly, because the last time he was there, he showed up in his NRSF uniform, but that morning he’d stressed endlessly over his clothes, something he’s never done once in his life. But this is different. He doesn’t want to stand out in the Temple any more than he knows he already will. It’s a futile defense, but one Anakin refused to live without. His options were limited, so he stands dressed in the same black pants and boots from the ball a few days earlier, and a black shirt in a similar style, over which he wears a dark coat which he brought with him from Naboo. For all he’d felt an annoyance, Padmé never seems to mind dressing him. (Or undressing him for that matter, regardless of what she picked out). She’d wanted him to wear the capelet, because she thinks it looks dashing, but it makes him feel too opulent for the Temple, what with the Jedi in their brown robes.

But he needs to disguise the saber somehow, so the coat goes on over the shirt. He’d turned it on at Padmé’s request a few times, and the look she gave would have been unreadable were it not for the Force.

She’s conflicted, seeing him there with it in his hands.

Anakin wonders if perhaps he should be more conflicted than he is. In a way, she’s right. He doesn’t know the first thing about actually using it, much less has anything to use it for. Yet his instincts, and Qui-Gon’s cryptic words reassure him that it’s necessary. Maybe by the time it makes sense, he’ll have learned how to wield it. There’s no counter balance, as the blade itself, generated of plasma, carries no weight; the first time he swung it, out of curiosity on Padmé’s veranda, he’d almost sliced off his other hand in surprise. He understands how it can be a benefit, but even with his quick reflexes and connection to the Force, he imagines that it will be nearly impossible to learn how to use it effectively, not to mention properly, without extensive training. Just imagining going up against someone else with a similar blade is enough to make Anakin blanche.

But those thoughts will have to keep, because a padawan – different from the Mon Calamari apprentice he’d met before; it’s been such a long time, he doesn’t know why he expected to see her again. Instead, it’s a male Mirialan who meets him at the desk.

The boy stares up at him expectantly, with a placid look on his face. It’s almost unnerving. “I am Padawan Ivedfqo Jizao. How can I assist you today?”

“I’m here to see Master Kenobi. He’s expecting me.”

There’s a whispered hush from a few older looking padawans, but the young one before him doesn’t bat an eye.

“Your name?”

“Anakin Skywalker.”

“Just a moment, please.”

The boy returns a little while later, unperturbed. “You’re expected. Please follow me.”

The Temple is just as big on the inside as the outside, it’s halls arching and enormously tall, with interior mezzanines overlooking broad open chambers bigger than any rooms Anakin’s seen before in his life, which when you work in starship hangers is saying something. It’s even quieter than Anakin remembers, with less echoing footsteps and voices; all at once, it comes to him. It is less busy here, because so many Jedi are away at the front, dying in the war.

Where it hangs on his belt, his lightsaber feels impossibly heavy.

He’s led to a turbolift, which eventually opens to rows and rows of small doors that remind him of Padmé’s apartment building on Naboo, when he realizes that that is essentially what it is. The padawan stops before a door which reads ‘Kenobi’ on the nameplate and knocks.

“Coming, coming.”

The door opens, revealing a much more relaxed Obi-Wan Kenobi. “Ah, Thank you for bringing Mr. Skywalker, Padawan Jizao. You may return to your post. I’ll manage things from here.” They bow to one another briefly, the padawan intoning a respectful ‘Master,’ before turning to go, leaving Anakin alone with Kenobi. 

“Ah, Anakin. Please come in. Things seem to be going better so far?”

“Hm? Oh yes. Yes, I’m a lot less overwhelmed. And well, no Shatterpoint.”

“No, not anymore.”

Anakin steps into the simple apartment, Kenobi shutting the door behind him with the press of a button. Though sparsely furnished, the chambers are filled with the soft yellow of morning light, which streams through the many, many lushly green fronds of the various plants strewn about the room. As far as personal touch goes, there is little beyond that. More than anything, Anakin’s just surprised that the plants manage to survive while the Jedi is gone. An aromatic smell reaches his nose, and Anakin’s attention is drawn to where Kenobi is pouring steaming water into two cups.

“Tea?”

“Sure, thank you.”

Kenobi takes the tray over to a little table in a compact sitting area. Awkwardly, Anakin follows him. The cushioning is stiff, unused.

“Well. I suppose I ought to start by saying that I’m glad you came. I wasn’t really sure that you would.”

Shrugging, Anakin lifts the cup, blowing on it. “Felt right to come.”

They each take a drink, still feeling one another out. The insistent Force pressure is still there, coiling around them.

“May I see it?” Obi-Wan asks, setting down the stoneware.

The Lightsaber.

It still feels strange pressed against his thigh. Without hesitation, Anakin reaches down to remove it from it’s clip and passes it across to Kenobi, who takes it reverently, turning the hilt over in his hands, studying the design closely.

“Unique. Well suited to your stature and hands. And well made, which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me. You are, after all, quite adept with machinery, or so I’ve been led to believe.” A snap-hiss signals ignition, and Anakin watches the flickering glow of the blue blade with equal parts pride and nervousness. “A successful attempt,” Kenobi proclaims, deigniting it once again. “And well weighted. Using a lightsaber can be tricky. Have you attempted anything with it yet?”

“No, not really.” Anakin rather pointedly does not mention the earlier near-incident. “It’s weightlessness makes swinging it effectively and efficiently rather…difficult.”

Kenobi raises a skeptical brow. “I thought you said you hadn’t attempted anything?” 

“Not _really_ ,” Anakin repeats, and though Kenobi appears amused, he doesn’t say anything more on the subject.

“Now that you have it, what exactly do you intend to do with it?”

Swallowing, Anakin tries to remind himself of all the things he’s practiced saying, and begins. “I don’t know. All I do know is that I might need it. Which must mean that I have to learn how to use it, sooner or later.”

“And how do you know? Another vision.”

“It was suggested to me as an accurate interpretation of my vision.” It’s a half-answer, serving only to intrigue Kenobi rather than dissuade him.

“By whom?”

“Master Kenobi, befo-“

“Obi-Wan will do fine,” Obi-Wan insists. “My apologies on interrupting you. Please, do go on.”

“Of course, Obi-Wan,” Anakin tries the name. “Before I give you that answer, I have many other things to say. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ve tried to come up with a good way to tell you everything, but I still feel less than confident. If you would let me get through everything I have to say, maybe hold your questions until then?”

Anakin expects Kenobi to refuse him, but he doesn’t.

“Of course.”

It’s twice now that Anakin’s told the full story of his visions, to Padmé and to his mother, and now, the former apprentice of the man Anakin calls teacher. He starts with the failed race. With the loss of his arm, his rapidly debilitating state of mind, and the supernova within him. Through the course of the telling, Obi-Wan’s expression is a mask, but Anakin can read his tells in the Force, in the way that incessant tendril curls around them protectively. He tells of his fear and his rage. Of his freedom and pilgrimage to the desert, the black hole, the dark Twin, the glass, everything. The visions. Visions of his mother dying. Visions of the Jedi dying. And it’s then that Obi-Wan physically flinches, his presence in the Force filled with sadness.

He talks of his travels, of trying to embrace the path destined for him, of fate returning him to the acquaintance of Senator Amidala, and finally of the incident at the Temple. By then, he can hold out no longer, but his pause is long enough, it seems, that Obi-Wan feels freed to speak.

“It sounds to me rather like you have a deep connection and little to no shielding,” Obi-Wan muses, and Anakin’s relieved that he doesn’t have to ask about the Force technique; Qui-Gon mentioned it briefly, but he knows enough what it is. “Entering a place like this, full of Jedi, a nexus of the Force at the center of the Temple…considering how brightly you shine, its no wonder you were overwhelmed when the Shatterpoint hit, though I’ve been informed that it was a large enough one that it should have stunned you too stupid to move.”

“Master Windu tell you that?” Anakin can’t help but ask.

“Yes, in fact,” Obi-Wan replies. “It’s a respectable individual and something of an aficionado on Shatterpoints. Seeing as you were looking for me when you came here, it was one of the things of which I was informed. Your future has significance, Anakin, if you broke a Shatterpoint that large. Have you determined what did it?”

Carefully, Anakin nods. “Later. I’m not complete.”

Tea comfortably in hand, Obi-Wan leans back, waiting.

“I fled the Temple, which I know you’re already well aware of. You mustn’t take this the wrong way Mas-Obi-Wan, but when I was finally off Jedi grounds I saw…”

“What?”

Anakin shakes his head. “Not a what. A who. Your Master. Qui-Gon Jinn. My teacher.”

Obi-Wan physically reacts, startling backwards, his signature in the Force full of uncertainty at the mention of his old Master’s name.

“It’s not impossible,” Anakin continues. “I know you believe it is. I don’t know what else to say other than that it’s the truth. He said my experience in the Temple opened me to contact with him. I’m not exactly sure what he is. A spirit from the Netherworld of the Force, he says. He’s been training me, helping me to gain control over myself. We meditate together, sometimes. I owe him so much.”

Biting his lip, Obi-Wan’s visceral response loses it’s raw edge, but he doesn’t settle. After their discussion that night at the Senatorial Ball, Anakin was sure that telling him would be a disaster. For a Jedi, Anakin supposes, this reaction _is_ a disaster. Obi-Wan is fairly well muted emotionally – he has good control of himself – but he cares about Qui-Gon, that much is evident by the way he completely loses it for, oh, a minute. Which is longer than Anakin anticipates.

After a few aborted attempts at speaking, Obi-Wan just stops trying and stares Anakin down hard, waiting.

“I’ve told you about my catastrophic experiences reaching purposefully for the Force before he contacted me. They didn’t stop,” Anakin continues. “There was an accident at Padmé’s apartment where I live, and that scared me into seeking him out. I was like a bomb waiting to be set off, Obi-Wan. He helped me to find peace. And then I received the visions about the lightsaber. He told me that he didn’t believe the fighting would come to Naboo, but that I might go to the fighting. But even for him not all things are certain.”

“Nothing is certain anymore.” Obi-Wan steeples his fingers in front of him, resting his chin on them. “Nothing has been certain for a very long time. Even the Council’s vision is clouded.”

Anakin shakes his head. “I think that has far more to do with your location than anything else. I don’t like it here. Nothing was ever wrong feeling in Force until I arrived on Coruscant. At first I just thought it was the population, but I don’t know about that anymore. Everything was clear at home, everywhere else I went. And especially Naboo. Things aren’t like they are here at all. Maybe if your Council wanted to get a more accurate picture of things, they’d go elsewhere.”

Brow furrowed, Obi-Wan simple looks contemplative. “Perhaps your insight reveals more than if we relocated for a time.” Abruptly, he stands. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Anakin. I must report to the Council. Come with me.”

Obi-Wan sweeps purposefully from the room and it’s all Anakin can do to follow him quickly enough, grateful for his long legs, or the ardent stride of the Jedi Master would have left him using the Force to search for the right direction. The ride up to the Council chambers is broodingly silent, and when they reach what seems to be a high tower, it stops.

As they step out, Obi-Wan whirls on him. “You must remain here. When it is time, you will be summoned in by a padawan.”

“Wait? What?” But Obi-Wan has already disappeared within the tower room, leaving Anakin to himself. The view is glorious, but Anakin feels like he’s suffocating. It’s too high, too close, and he’s not ready. Not ready. Not ready. Waiting doesn’t make it feel any better. In fact, the waiting is what makes it worse. The not knowing what will happen. How they will look at him, what they will think. What they will ask.

 _P e a_ _c_ _e ._ _._ _._

Qui-Gon’s gentle timbre settles into his chest and he shivers with it, trying to let it all fall away. It’s not easy, still. He wonders if it ever will be. But he can’t hide again. He can’t run away. _Don’t look back, Ani._

“Excuse me? Sir?” A human padawan this time. Her hair is shorn short and a braid hangs beside her ear. In a flash, the little girl is gone, and in her place, he sees himself. Bright blue eyes serious, intense, drilling into him as if in warning. They flash, and a shadow expands, enfolding the vision, which slips away in the midmorning sunlight leaving only the little girl. “They’re ready for you.”

The vision leaves him the opposite of settled, but there is no choice left now.

With a pneumatic sound, the door opens and Anakin enters the High Council Chamber.

Mace Windu ensnares him first.

“Skywalker.”

“Master Windu.”

All eyes are on him. It’s a more intimate setting than the last time he felt so invaded, more demanding, and he swallows it down, bows lowly before the Council as an excuse to shut his eyes, to gain harness over himself, recalling the experience on Ilum, where he felt so secure for the first time. Settled, centered, he rights himself and breathes deeply, a look of serenity coming over his face, and waits, for what he does not know.

“Tell us you will,” says a small green Master of a race Anakin’s never before seen. All attention pans to him when he speaks, and Anakin understands instinctually that this is perhaps the most important person in the room. “About why Coruscant you so dislike.”

“It’s wrong here.”

“Explain, you will.”

“I don’t know how.” Everything about this situation is testing his hard won center. “I don’t have the right words to make sense of it.”

But the little green Master refuses to budge. “Whatever words you have, use you will.”

“It’s cold,” he says, feeling foolish. “And a fog. Murky. Other places aren’t like this, not for me at least.”

“Know of the Sith, you do? Hmm? Speak of them, Master Kenobi has?”

Anakin only nods. “A little. Darksiders.”

“Reach into the Force, you will now. What you feel, tell us you will.”

“Now?”

“Hear me, can you not? Speak clearly do I not?”

Bewildered by the Master’s attitude, Anakin loses a little of his calm façade, but does as he’s told, closing his eyes, but instead of drawing on the Force from around him, he draws on the wellspring within himself. It’s safer, now, something he’d never have thought before Ilum, than drawing on the tainted environment of Coruscant. He pushes mental hands into the well, lets it run through his fingers, spreads it out, like a window glass, and peers through it towards the outside.

“What see you, hmm?”

“A storm.”

“Go on.” The part of his brain still registering outside influences recognizes the voice as Mace Windu.

“It’s here. The epicenter. The calm eye. Everything around it is in turmoil. It’s growing. Fast.”

“Where, here?”

Anakin shakes his head. “We’re too close to the eye. I can’t tell. Its influence is too great to pinpoint the nexus. It’s hidden. Missing.”

When no more questions come for him, he withdraws from the well, slowly opening his eyes.

“I fear you are right, Master Kenobi,” says a Cerean Master. “The Sith Master is here on Coruscant.”

Several Masters nod in agreement. Windu looks to the diminutive master with a barely there expression, who only grumbles a little. “Pretend we know this not, we must. That see this we could not, infer this we could not…Bothers me greatly this does.”

“Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan says. “That Anakin _can_ see what we cannot is equally significant.”

“Forget this, Master Kenobi, I have not.”

“How exactly is it that you accomplish this, Skywalker?” A Kel Dor Master asks him.

He shrugs. “I just do. There’s a well inside me, full of the Force. I look within it.”

The mood in the room alters significantly, several Masters shifting in their seats, sharing glances between one another. Anakin finds the blue hologram that serves to bring the familiar face of Kit Fisto to the group, but the usually jovial Master isn’t smiling. A weight descends on Anakin; he can feel it pushing him into the floor.

Expectation. Curiosity.

“Tell us, Skywalker, what you know of Shatterpoints,” Windu asks.

Rapidly, Anakin shifts his gaze to Kenobi, whose face is an impenetrable mask. “I broke one the first time I came here.”

“A Shatterpoint is a fault within the natural course of things. A divergent path. A possibility. When you arrive here, the Shatterpoint you sense was almost simultaneously birthed and destroyed. Do you know what that means?”

Anakin shakes his head.

“You are on a path, Skywalker. Now, we’ve allowed you to be your own agent thus far; however-“

“No one tells me what to do,” Anakin retorts insistently, cutting off the Korun Master. “I am not a member of your Order. I am not beholden to you. I came here to help, because I felt I could. Because I want to, but on my terms. I am not-“ _A Jedi,_ he thinks, but does not say. Qui-Gon’s presence fills his mind. “I am not one of you,” he settles on. “I am not meant to be one of you. I am on a path. My own. I go where the Force wills me, or I go nowhere.”

The rightness of the statement settles in his bones, though he doesn’t know where he derives the courage to say it.

“Determined, you are. Headstrong. A creature of strong emotion.” The diminutive master says, pointing at him harshly in warning. “Dangerous, this is.”

“I cannot be anything other than that which I am.”

Mace Windu’s impeccable expression flinches. “If you are… _willing_ , we may call on you again. For your insight. Does this suit you?”

Respectfully, Anakin inclines his head in acceptance, though the same rightness does not fill him in this decision as it had before. The room whirls with uncertainty, leaving Anakin to wonder if he should ever have come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Lightsabers cannot just be wielded in mortal combat successfully without training. Not even Anakin can do that. The physics of their construction would make it practically impossible.  
> But since Disney only gives a shit about money, I guess practicality doesn't matter anymore.  
> End rant.


	14. Faultlines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so heads up Anakin does a little thinking about some rough stuff in this chapter, but it's only minorly alluded to, regarding having kids in slavery. So if you're uncomfortable with that, when you get to the bit where there's a single line paragraph that says 'Children', just skip the next paragraph and you're good.

“I’m sorry about what happened in there,” Obi-Wan tells him as they walk together towards the turbo lift. They’d asked Anakin to leave the chamber, but to remain if he were  _ willing, _ and he had, because he was telling the truth – he does want to help. He can.

“It’s fine.”

“The Council isn’t used to dealing with non-Jedi. Ironic, I suppose, considering that they denied to train you in the first place.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “Regardless, they are grateful for your assistance. They’re just…troubled. This revelation, quite frankly, we should have seen it. It should be obvious. That we can be so easily misdirected is frustrating, to say the least. And a grave concern. This Sith is powerful. More powerful than first imagined. The Master has been keeping his sabacc hand close to the chest for a long time. Far longer than we even knew we were playing.”

“Do you think the Sith might have actually be in the Senate?” Anakin asks, thinking about the cold wave within the Force.

“No, no,” Obi-Wan discards the thought immediately. “If he was that brazen, it would be nearly impossible to hide himself. Influence, yes, that seems likely, but be a physical, public figure? I doubt it. We are not so blinded as to miss such a dark presence so out in the open like that.”

Obi-Wan continues to speak, and Anakin lets him, falling into his own ruminations and not receding from them but for a moment to thank Obi-Wan for his time and wish him a good day. On the civilian transport, Anakin falls into a deep trance, tries again to peer through that well, to colour his vision of the world in the Force, but only the storm is visible, surrounding him on all sides. The Sith is near, that much is certain and only that much.

Back home, Padmé is her own whirlwind of activity. He has to go back to Naboo the next morning, and she’s spent the first half of her day doing whatever she can to clear her schedule for him. The warmth of her in the Force is a boon, and he pushes away dark thoughts in favour of brighter ones. Like their engagement. Their wedding.

When she finally notices him watching her fly about the rooms, her expression blossoms into one of joy and they fly at each other; he lifts her, twirling her around before settling her back on the ground, though no less encased in his arms. Maybe it’s silly, since they just saw one another that morning, but Anakin wants to indulge in even the smallest moments of happiness, just in case.

“I’ll be back on Naboo before you know it,” she says into his chest, not willing to let go either. “There’s just a few more votes in the next two weeks that I must be present for, and then I can come home to you.”

It’s hard on her, he knows. Conflict is harboured behind her stoic shell, the desire to be home, with her loved ones on Naboo is just as strong as her belief that her presence in the Senate is essential to the maintenance of Democracy and the ending of a war. More than once she’s chastened him about taking the galaxy on his shoulders, but they’re more alike for all they are different, in the end. They both want to help, even at their own cost. She’s admirable for her desire, but it's just as much folly when it’s her doing it, as it is him.

It’s funny. Even the smallest insight can have the largest effect. Looking at her in this perspective suddenly changes his own of himself.

He’s a little cog in a big machine, but even the littlest cogs are essential to keep the whole thing moving. For the first time, Anakin thinks, the weight of the galaxy may  _ really _ be on him, and for the first time, he wishes it weren’t. To save one life is one thing. To save a galaxy is another entirely. 

The realization is daunting.

“I can’t wait until you’re in my arms again,” he replies, a little belatedly, voice stilted.

Time. He needs time. Wants it. When he’s on Naboo, it’s almost like time slows. It doesn’t stop, but things feel different. Like the farther out he gets from the core, the less things happen. The less things matter. Just a bit more time.

He’s not ready. Building a lightsaber isn’t the same as using it.

“I am in your arms, silly. Remember what we said about enjoying moments instead of looking ahead to when we can’t?”

Padmé’s voice brings him back to the present. “Yes, I remember.” And later, Qui-Gon can chastise him for having forgotten his number one teaching.

All too quickly, however, the present becomes the past, and Anakin’s on Naboo again, back at work, which isn’t exactly something he’s bemoaning. He loves the job, and he’s grateful to be away from Coruscant’s cold influence, but being without Padmé is the tradeoff. A good thing, then, that they’re engaged. When it’s all over, they won’t have to be apart so much. These desires war within him, too. He wants it all; no trade off. He wants to be with her, constantly, yet he’s not ready to face the trials he knows await him, the trials that will have to pass before it  _ can _ be all over. Patience has never been his strong suit.

It takes him a while to work himself back to where he was when he left Ilum. With Qui-Gon’s assistance, he recenters himself before long, spending as much of his free time as possible in quiet meditation with his ghostly teacher, though those meditations have transposed themselves from sitting quietly or moving things with his mind, to a rather intense regime of katas, first only in body, then followed by the addition of his lightsaber.

The weapon becomes an extension of himself, as much a part of his arm as his cybernetic prosthesis. It takes less and less effort to control. With his eyes closed, he can still see it, visualize the exact location of the humming plasma blade in relation to his body, to the world around him, and he finds that his mind clears almost as easily as it does when he’s working on machines. There is nothing but Qui-Gon’s voice in these moments, instructing him, sometimes on form, sometimes on theory, relating phrases and suggestions in the same calm tone as always.

They work it, over and over until he’s sore, until he’s exhausted, drained physically and mentally, and every day, he pushes a bit farther. A bit harder. And it becomes easier. Rote, just like making the curves at the Mos Espa Grand Arena. He can do it in his sleep. Which, Qui-Gon says, is essentially the goal. Second nature is trained, not born. The Force cannot be a crutch, is not to be used frivolously, but purposefully. It is not a replacement for physical capability, and Anakin understands that better than most. Even the slightest loss of concentration flying that pod had nearly cost him his life. To whatever end this training may come, he doesn’t know, but he refuses to be unprepared for it.

And since being prepared is something he can control, when Padmé gets home, he asks her, however reluctantly, for her insights on the senate.

“You…want to know about politics.  _ You _ , my fiancé,  _ Anakin Skywalker _ . Want to know about politics. Who are you and what have you done with my Ani?”

But her teasing aside, she takes his request to heart, without asking why, and teaches him. He learns which Senators have ideals that align with Padmé’s most strongly – that being the upholding of sentients rights and democratic values – and which are a little less staunch. He learns about internal alliances between systems, about planetary feuds, about the power structure and its ever teetering imbalances. About how various individuals came to power and who supported them in their rise.

Most importantly, perhaps, though he keeps this as subtle as he’s able – even Qui-Gon isn’t sure that skill is ever likely to improve – he learns about the three who entered with that cold wave on the day of the ball.

Mas Amedda is the name of the Chagrian. It’s clear to see that he makes Padmé bristle more than usual when discussing colleagues she’s not particularly fond of. Anakin finds it strange that someone with such close ties to the Trade Federation was able to remain Vice Chancellor beneath the former Senator of Naboo, but he doesn’t ask Padmé her opinion on the matter. Stranger still that, after the revelation of the Federation’s true treachery, he wasn’t voted out. It seems to Anakin that someone whose allegiances were questionable, probably wouldn’t make a very good second in command to the entire Republic, but then, he’s no politician, so he doesn’t voice the opinion. Whatever the matter, Amedda is clearly a ladder climber; if there’s one thing he’s learned from listening to Padmé talk politics, it’s that the Republic’s organization isn’t  _ really _ all that different from the Hutts. 

The Chancellor himself, Sheev Palpatine, is a hard point for Padmé; on one hand, he helped her when she was Queen, advised her in a manner which saw the freedom of her people from the planetary blockade, but over the course of his Chancellorship – for which, Anakin discovers, Padmé herself is directly responsible (and maybe that’s where her self-burden comes from?) – he has gradually taken on more and more power in an attempt to combat the Separatists.

“It worries me, Ani,” Padmé confesses. “It worries me to see  _ any _ one person accumulating so much power. He’s charismatic. He always has been, and when he speaks, people listen. But they only hear what he wants him to. I’m afraid, Ani. They vote him these powers, for all the good they do! It feels as though we are no closer today to the end of the war than we were when it began!”

The conversation ends there for a time; she’s home, and he doesn’t want her to spend what little opportunity she has to relax getting all worked up over things he’s been asking her about.

Another day, a later day, the line of questioning continues, and he learns about Sly Moore, the bald Umbaran woman who had entered with them. Together, she and Mas Amedda make up the Chancellor’s retinue. The unsettling and mysterious woman holds the position of Staff Aide to the Chancellor, and though Padmé claims not to put any stock in the rumours, there are several curious reports about how she came about the position. Blackmail is at the top of the list, which sends alarm bells off in Anakin’s head, until he remembers what Obi-Wan said, about obviousness. Still, Anakin’s inclined to believe that if the Sith had hid their presence on Coruscant, they could hide their presence in the senate.

So, Anakin tries to think like a Sith.

Power, he supposes, is a Sith’s ultimate desire. Obi-Wan had said that they use the Force to achieve their selfish desires, so attaining more power would logically be the next step. Anyone who wants something, generally wants to keep that thing. Amplify it a thousandfold, he figures, and you get a Sith.

So it seems unlikely that they’d resort to influencing someone when they’re powerful enough to actually hold a position. If power and unrest is the end goal, directly having a hand in that would be the only way to ensure things happened as was desirable. Like Cliegg, often said, if you want a job done right, you give it to the person best suited to achieve the outcome. Not exactly the most common configuration of the saying, but it was sensible enough to Anakin. The Sith would want to do it themselves. Putting anyone else in power to achieve it would be anathema to their desires.

It follows that that person would have to be one of the most influential in the Republic, which narrows it down a bit further. Someone close with Mas Amedda, or Sly Moore, or the Chancellor. And also, someone who wouldn’t be looked at and immediately found suspicious. Which is where Anakin’s train of thought ends, his problem being that, aside from Padmé and a few of her close colleagues, they’re all politicians, and each and every one of them may as well be dirty as the Hutts in Anakin’s estimation, since their goals are the same. The Republic’s only real difference from the Hutts is its moral exterior. Money runs the machine of any governance. Money and power, and in this there is no difference, rules against slavery or not.

When he tells Padmé so, she flushes, a sharp gleam in her eye, which is how the nature of the Republic becomes their first real argument. It’s a fierce discussion, and no one wins, per say. Actually, Anakin rather feels like they both lost, though he doesn’t understand why.

Thus ends Anakin’s foray into understanding the interior workings of the political machine of the Republic.

Later, when they’ve made up, because they do, of course, both turning to the other to apologize for insensitive words and high tempers, Padmé finds it in her to laugh.

“What?”

“I never thought I’d say this, Ani, but I liked it better when the most interest you took in politics was pretending to listen while I ranted at you about work.” 

“Then I guess it’s a good thing that you’ve forever banished me from the topic.”

“I didn’t  _ banish _ you, goodness you’re so dramatic.”

The ‘argument’ that follows is at least one of the teasing nature, rather than its more serious counterpart. Regardless, Anakin files away all he’s learned and keeps it for another time. Padmé is unlikely to stop venting at him – and he wouldn’t want her to, regardless; it’s an important outlet for her frustration – and he is sure that he’ll pick up more than a few spare pieces of information that might hint at power grabbing moves and expose the shadows to their unwitting observer.

Well, maybe. Anakin’s not exactly confident, but it’s all he can do, so he resolves that he will, simple as that.

With Padmé returned home, Anakin’s routine changes a little. He practices his katas, meditates, communes with Qui-Gon, works, same as always, goes out with his colleagues a few times, goes out with Padmé a few time, before her work on planet is settled and they take a trip out to visit her parents to announce the engagement. The same day she’d asked him to marry her, they’d made a holo entry on the journal for his mother, and even though the datachip wasn’t full, he’d sent it off first thing, but hasn’t gotten anything back yet, which though a little worrisome, isn’t too surprising.

It’s nice to see Padmé’s family, to share joy and warmth at the announcement with them, to see her happy, but he aches to see his mother. As wedding talk dominates the table – Varykino is unanimously decided as the perfect location for the ceremony – Anakin is not the only one whose focus turns to his side of the family.

“And have you told your family, Anakin?” Jobal asks kindly. He’s always liked Padmé’s mother especially, probably because of his own. “I’m sure they’d want to have their say as well?”

“Mother, the only opinions that really matter are mine and Anakin’s,” Padmé retorts, and Anakin stifles a laugh at Sola’s extreme expression. Together, they commiserate while mother and daughter debate the finer points of their parents involvement in the planning of the occasion. Anakin doesn’t much care himself, as long as his Mother is there, and Padmé, of course. They’re the two most important people in his life, and he can’t imagine getting married without either of them, which, he supposes, is a good thing for Padmé. It’s a redundant thought but true.

“I’ve mentioned our engagement to my mom,” which is true, if an understatement. Mention isn’t exactly the right word. Mention implies casual. He and Padmé were anything but casual in the recording. Anakin’s not sure that there’s a phrase to cover ‘ecstatic communication of future plans’. “But I haven’t heard back from her yet. My intention was to go visit at some point soon, but obviously, things have changed. But,” he takes Padmé’s hand. “I couldn’t be happier for it.”

All trace of argument gone out of her, his love beams at him. “I feel vindicating knowing that I was able to surprise you.”

Which is how they end up discussing the fact that it was  _ Padm _ é _ , _ who asked him, not the other way around, bringing Sola to utter the word ‘typical’, and starting up a whole new round of ‘gang up on Padmé’. It’s adorable, the way she fights against their cooing at her romantic inclinations, but he’ll never tell her so to her face. No, instead, Sola rather points out his amusement, turning Padmé’s ire inevitably on him.

In the late evening, with Padmé curled around him, they talk absently about their future. Or rather, she talks, and Anakin listens.

How she plans to be at home more, as soon as the war is over. How they should find a better apartment, one more suited to the both of them, with a workshop for Anakin and an office for both, and an extra bedroom, just in case. Seemingly unaware of the gravity of her insinuation, Padmé continues to speak softly, while Anakin loses all track of the conversation.

Children.

It’s something he’s never really considered before. As a younger man, though one old enough to think about such things, he’d known that any child of his would be born into the same condition he was, and so he’d simply decided he’d never have a child at all. Not that such a thing would necessarily have been under his control. Even though Watto hadn’t ever been that sort of a Master, there was no assurance that he might not have ended up back under the ownership of the Hutts, where such a thing wasn’t exactly unheard of. Anakin shudders to even think about it.

When Padmé asks if something’s wrong, he doesn’t answer.

Some things are better left unsaid. She’s too good to hear the darkness that could have been his future, once, and it’s no longer something of concern. No, Anakin refuses to burden her with even the thought. It’s not her weight to carry.

But the thought stays with him. Children, a lineage, grandchildren for his mother…those things are a possibility now, and, Anakin finds, one that isn’t exactly unappealing.

“Ani?” Padmé says, and by the tone, he can tell it’s not the first repetition. “What are you thinking? Share with me, my Love.”

“I want a little girl,” he blurts, almost as much to his own shock as hers.

“What?”

“You said you wanted an extra room, just in case.” He rolls over to face her, her arm slipping over his chest to the small of his back. The confusion in her expression is illuminated only by the moon, and he must not have been listening for a while if it takes her so long to parse out his meaning.

“Oh,” she says when she realizes, and then smiles almost shyly. “I want a little boy. Maybe…one of each? If we’re lucky?”

Something insistent tugs within him. “If we’re lucky,” he repeats, though his words lack conviction. Anakin can see them now, clear as day, though their backs are to him; they stride ahead, confident, shoulders set, backs straight, conviction in their postures and power in their strides. One with chestnut hair, the other towheaded. The certainty he feels is almost overwhelming. Nothing, not even the visions of his mother, or of the dying Jedi, has ever felt so set in stone.

“Are you alright?” Padmé asks him again, stroking his forehead and cheek. “Ani?”

“I’m fine. Tell me more about our future, Angel.”

And though he doesn’t really listen, she continues to talk at his behest until long after he’s fallen asleep.

In sleep, he dreams.

He dreams of the dark Twin, but this dream is not like the others. His dark Twin walks behind him, a shadow created by the mere presence of his own internal light. Together, they take the steps of the Jedi Temple, the sound of a thousand marching feet behind him, tramping in time. The lightsaber on his belt tapping insistently against his outer thigh in the same rhythm. The Temple screams when he crosses the boundary beyond the pylons.

Blue light, a distant hum, the scream of a child-

Anakin wakes up, breathing heavily. Beside him, Padmé, sleeping blissfully. He curls himself around her, slides his hand over her rounded stomach-

His hand pulls back and he flies from the bed, sheets strewn haphazardly in his wake, revealing her pregnant form. He rounds the bed to look at her more closely. It can’t be Padmé, but it is. Her features in sleep are peaceful. Slumber agrees with her as much as does pregnancy. She’s beautiful, flush with life. He reached out his hand to touch her brow. Abruptly her features contort and her eyes open wide, bulging almost, hands fly to her neck, scrabble there ineffectually as she gasps for breath.

Confused, terrified he steps towards her, and her gasping worsens. He looks down. His outstretched hand is a fist, black and terrible.

Padmé’s eyes begin to flutter and he pulls back his hand as if burned, but she lies still, unmoving, and softly he feels the precious candlelight of life snuff. Movement in his peripheral. Anakin turns to the window, and in the glass he sees not himself, but the void Spectre, grinning at him.

Rage engulfs him from within and the window starts to rattle ominously, cracks, shatters-

“Ani! Wake up! Wake up! Anakin  _ please! _ ”

It’s Padmé. She’s there, alive, warm, living, breathing, slender as when they went to bed. Still, he scrambles back from her, half falling off the bed in his haste. She follows him.

“Anakin, it was a dream, whatever it was it was a dream! Just a dream!”

Pushing himself up against the wall, he ducks his head down between his knees and sobs, helplessly.

Rarely, are his dreams,  _ just _ dreams. 


	15. Foundations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Normally I'd take today off from posting, but I didn't want to leave you all on that cliffhanger. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments. It makes my day to receive them. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

It takes Anakin two weeks to feel some semblance of normal again.

The panic attack was one thing; when it’s over and done with some twenty minutes later, he rationally knows that he didn’t kill her, didn’t commit any atrocities against the Jedi’s home, that those things didn’t happen. They’re both keyed up, and Padmé is worried, begging him to share with her, but he refuses. She doesn’t need the darkness of his innermost thoughts. And that’s what they were, he decides. That’s what they  _ have _ to be. Right now, he only wants to revel in the fact that she’s there, beneath his hands and suddenly going back to sleep beside her isn’t as terrifying a consideration as it had been a few minutes ago. In fact, it’s almost comforting, even if he doesn’t actually do much sleeping. Feeling her breath against his neck, the movement of her body as she shifts in sleep is enough to remind and reassure him that everything really is alright.

The next morning, he wakes her with a kiss, gently caressing her cheek. Eyelids fluttering open, she looks at him with aching tenderness and he tells her he’s going out on the patio to meditate. He takes with him a new component that he’s working on for Artoo – what will be the holder for his lightsaber which he’ll be dropping into a secret ejectable compartment – and waits to find serenity. When he does, he doesn’t notice, which is just about the hallmark of meditation, Anakin’s discovered. The only reason he realizes it has worked is because Qui-Gon sits down across from him.

“You’re troubled, Ani.” A shimmering blue hand covers his own and Anakin puts down the tool. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“A dream. I’m pretty sure that’s all it was,” he begins before relating everything that came to pass, shuddering violently as he does, though feeling a little better for each word. It takes less time than he imagined it would. Even the most terrible things seemed fleeting in the daylight, but it’s not enough to steady him. “You told me I’d have to be careful, but what if I’m wrong? What if it’s not just a dream? What if it's more?” Considering the previous night’s conversation, the places that his thoughts have been lately, it makes sense that they were thoughts, tangled in a nightmarish web, remnants from his terrible musings, though some of the content disturbs him more than he’d like to admit.

“How did it feel, compared to your premonitions?”

Anakin is loath to refocus himself the way the dreams felt, – it hadn’t been good to say the least – so he starts instead with remembering the dreams of his mother and the Jedi. They’d been quite clear, repetitious, obviously. Succinct, too. The last time he’d featured in one of his own premonitions, he’d been just a little boy, but it was different then too. When he’d woken from them, he’d felt a certain sense of surety along with whatever other emotions they provoked.

He tries not to dwell overlong in thinking about the previous night’s dream, shuddering at the memory. But they’re stranger than his other dreams. He’s never felt ensnared in one before, as though it might never end. Ultimately, Anakin shakes his head. “They’re different. They’re not premonitions.”

“Good. That’s very good Anakin.”

“But, Teacher, what if I only want to believe that? What if I’m tricking myself? What if-“

Harshly, Qui-Gon cuts him off. “You cannot afford to dwell on such things Ani. They will cause you nothing but pain. You must trust in yourself, and trust in the Force to guide you. Forget what you’re thinking – your mind is far from your friend, and can be easily deceived. Listen to the Force. What does it tell you, Anakin?”

Eyes closed, Anakin pushes away the thoughts, reaches into the well, whose mirrored pool trembles with the strength of his emotions. “They’re not premonitions.”

“Very good. What else?”

The memory of his smiling Twin reflected in the window flashes before him. “They may not be premonitions, but they are warnings.”

“Against what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

When he opens his eyes again, Qui-Gon is watching him carefully. “Then let us both think on what has come to pass. Perhaps together we can work things out.”

“There’s a Sith in the senate.” Anakin’s not exactly sure where it comes from, but he says it anyway. “I’m sure of it.”

Qui-Gon doesn’t appear phased. “Indeed. The Sith mask themselves well.”

“I’m going to figure out who it is.” There, suddenly, he finds his surety again, feels the conviction and truth of his statement thrumming through him, focuses on it, holds it close, a drowning man clinging to a rock. A drowning man who is still just learning how to swim.

“Start with Dooku.” Qui-Gon strokes his beard, a sure sign he’s troubled as well. “He was once my Master, now he is apprenticed to the Sith Lord. Of that, even the Jedi are sure. If you pay attention to him in correlation with the Senate, perhaps you will have better luck in your search.”

“How come you don’t know?”

At that, Qui-Gon laughs. “Would that I did, my padawan. Would that I did, I would save you and everyone else the strife. But I do not. Even in this form, I am far from all knowing, all seeing, all powerful. And I should not like to be any of those things. I think you would find me rather less good natured if I was. Be at peace, Anakin. You are kind of heart. Be true to that. While you may have darkness within you, that is true of us all. No one is above the darkness. Not even your beloved Padmé, not even your mother. And it does not take a Force sensitive to do destructive things with that darkness, though it is multiplied in the Force.”

“On Ilum,” Anakin begins, voice shaky, “I accepted that he and I are one, but I told him I don’t need him, but sometimes I think that maybe I just don’t want to need him. Maybe I do, in some small way. He’s my anger. My rage. He kept me alive all those years on Tatooine.”

“Accepting that he is a part of you is a step, Anakin. But you should not rely on your anger and rage to fuel you – be wary, for he is made of fear as well, and you have already learned that lesson once before. There are other far more powerful things, and I do not believe that it was your anger and rage alone, or even primarily, which kept you alive on Tatooine, and certainly not your fear. No, I think it was something much, much greater than that.”

“What was it, Teacher?”

A sad smile crosses his face. “That I cannot tell you, young one. Only you can discover that for yourself. While you run your katas, this is the thing I want you to focus on. Not finding your Sith. I think that will all be made aware in due time. Find your inner strength, Ani. Find it and anchor yourself with it. I think you'll realize that it has been leading you your whole life. Maybe your dream warnings will find their meaning in this revelation.”

So, two weeks pass. Two weeks of less sleep than usual, though he gradually finds himself being lulled sooner than the days before. Two weeks of fruitless katas and wavering focus. Two weeks of managing the fallout of the dream. It hasn’t repeated, not once, something for which he’s infinitely grateful.

But his hard won balance with the dark Twin is still upset, resting delicately on its edge as if waiting for something to tip the scales. Then, he thinks, it has almost always been that way. He’s always been a hair’s breadth away from pitching one way or another, ever since he was little. It’s a part of him, but he doesn’t have to like it.

It’s also two weeks of Padmé tip-toeing around him for a while, doting unnecessarily and speaking more softly than is her wont, which in itself bothers him almost more than anything else.

“You don’t have to do this for me, Padmé,” he says one afternoon. “I’m not going to break or something. I won’t. Really.”

“But how can I know, Ani, when you won’t tell me!” Small flyaway strands of her hair fall in front of her eyes, making her look wild. “You’ve been so quiet lately, so focused, but so absent! We’re going to be married, Anakin. We need to share and do so freely. You’re not going to  _ burden _ me.”

He hates it that she can read him so well. Or rather, he loves it, but hates it at that moment. “It’s…hard.” The admission hurts almost as much. “If I don’t like thinking about any of it, you won’t, and I don’t want you to have to.” He’d told Qui-Gon already. Why can’t that be enough? “Especially not when I already do.”

“Anakin.” She tugs on his shirt, pulling him in firmly so that he cannot avoid her gaze. “We are stronger together. That’s what this is about. That’s what marriage is about. I vent to you all the time and this is arguably a much bigger deal. Whatever it is, it’s been eating away at you. Was it another premonition? Something horrible? By not telling me, I’m sure whatever I’m coming up with is ten times worse that whatever it really-“

“Nothing can be worse. Nothing you can imagine is worse.” The urgency of his words stun her to silence, but not for long.

“Tell me, Anakin. I’m not afraid.”

Suddenly, one half of his problem is clear to him. She might not be afraid, but  _ he  _ is, and he can’t help but feel a little shameful for it. Somehow, it’s freeing to acknowledge, even though it feels awful. So he takes the leap, and tells her in the only way he knows how. Bluntly.

“I dreamed that I killed you.”

He thought he felt peace when he shared with Qui-Gon, but by comparison, this admission brings with it a flood. Odd, considering he was sure he’d feel worse, that she might never look at him the same again. That such a truth could have changed them irrevocably. But somehow, no matter how odd, he’s not surprised. Those thoughts were only ever the product of fear, and now that fear is gone. The rest comes more easily then, flooding out of him in a deluge.

“I dreamed I killed you and our baby. I dreamed that I did terrible things at the Jedi Temple. And it was awful, and I felt-“ He stops himself. Shakes it off. “But they were only dreams. Manifestations of fear. Warnings. Not premonitions. I can promise you that. I-I know what premonitions are like, and this wasn’t that.”

In a flash, Padmé rushes to his side, hugs him tightly. “Oh, Ani, how awful. What a terrible dream, my Love. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you had to see those things. No wonder you reacted like you did! Anyone would have felt the same.”

The warmth of her is overwhelming and completely unexpected. She’s been right all along. He should have told her. For every kata and every meditation, none have brought him such clarity as this moment. Her fortitude is his shelter, her support is his balm.

He loves her. But that on its own is not enough. He has to accept her love in turn, accept the partnership that she’s offered him. Though he said yes to her offer of marriage just over a month ago already, he realizes only now that he hadn’t accepted it in it’s full capacity. Love saw him through on Tatooine too, the love of his mother, his love for his mother.

It’s love. Love is his strength.

It seems so simple now! How he could have missed it is baffling. Fear is more blinding, it seems, than is love.

“You still seem so far away. Tell me what’s on your mind, Ani.” Padmé’s eyes are wide and welcoming as her arms, safety and security in their midst.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate to tell her.

They sit and with quiet contemplation, Padmé takes in his revelation.

“It's so much easier to trust a beloved parent to take care of you. Your mother cared for you before you knew what it was to trust, Ani. You never doubted that she would love you, that she would support you and protect you. You never had cause for misgivings. Filial love should always be like that, even though it’s not. Oh, Ani, without your mother, I’d have been so afraid for you. And with us, of course it's going to be different. Giving your heart unconditionally is a scary business. You don’t think I wasn’t afraid to ask you to marry me, do you?”

Honestly, he hadn’t.

When he says so, she laughs in a rather self-deprecating way.

“Don’t do that,” he reprimands. “There’s nothing funny about it. Why would you have been afraid? You know that I love you!”

Her only response is to raise a brow, prompting him to reflect on the idiocy of what he’s said.

“Ani, you can’t hold yourself to a double standard. That’s unfair to us both.” A placating hand lands on his shoulder, rubs there consolingly. “I’m no better than you Anakin. I fear too, even though I know that you love me. We’re only people. People are naturally irrational, and even though we’ve been together now for quite a while, new steps, big things, they’re scary. We don’t have the same foundation of trust yet. We have to build it and the only way we do that is by talking  _ together _ , working  _ together _ . We have to learn not to doubt, and even then, it might still be a little scary sometimes.”

“You know, this is all well and good and I don’t doubt any of it, not one bit.” Anakin shifts a little where he’s sitting, simultaneously wanting to be both nearer and farther from her all at once. “But I can’t help but wonder if that’s enough for us. If by our nature, things are going to be more difficult.”

A frown creeps into the corners of her mouth. “’Our nature’? What do you mean?”

Anakin stares at the ground between his feet. “I’m not…I’m not normal.”

The admission has been a long time in coming, not to her so much as to himself. He wants so badly to be normal, to feel normal. The closest he gets to that is with his colleagues at work, or at home with Padmé, but when adding together the sum total of his life, things just…don’t work out right. Even among the Jedi, he’s an anomaly.

Even to Qui-Gon.

“Other people don’t have the same sort of problems,” he hedges around the topic. “I know I shouldn’t worry. That I overthink things, and maybe that’s the  _ most _ normal thing about me-“ he can’t help laughing there himself. “-But everything else just feels so much…bigger. Normal people worry about work. I’m worried about having premonitions and finding a Sith Lord in the Senate. I’m worried that my problems are too big for…us.”

“Alright, fair point,” Padmé concedes. “But when you distill it down to the heart of the issues, are you really any different than anyone else? Really?”

_ Yes, _ he thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

“Think about it, Ani. Your problems are just like everyone else’s. You’re worried about sharing your insecurities with the woman you love. You feel like you have expectations on your shoulders that you’re incapable of bearing alone. But you’re not alone. You’re the farthest thing from alone, Anakin. You have always had love and support, and you always will, if I have anything to say about it, not to mention your mother.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he says, shocking himself, because he’d only meant to think it, but sharing it feels right. He’s always believed in being honest. He doesn’t know when he felt the need to stop, even if he does know why. He wants to protect her, and in doing so, protect himself. The line between selfish and selfless grows muddier by the minute. “But I’ll try. I have to try.”

Eyes shining bright with earnest intent, Padmé squeezes his hand tightly. “ _ We’ll _ try. Together.”

“Right. Because we’re a partnership.”

“Exactly.”

That night, his sleep is deep.

He dreams of podracing. He’s a little boy again, cherub cheeked and as innocent as ever he can recall having been. When the horn sounds, he guns it, but his little boy self doesn’t follow the track, looping round and round. This time, he breaks away, zooming across the landscape towards the horizon, Mos Espa left behind in his wake, no more than a distant memory. And while the shadow races beneath him still, it stays there. It is never above him, threatening to engulf him.

He’s fast, and wild, and free, and nothing can contain him.

For the next few days, things settle down. Padmé makes what she assures him will be a quick trip to Coruscant, and Anakin busies himself with checking the communication center to see if his mother’s sent any datachips, but nothing shows up. He’s getting a little disheartened – he knows that she loves him, he  _ trusts _ that she does, and he doesn’t have any cause to fear for her; if he had, he suspects, he would well be aware of it by now. It’s probably her innate desire not to let anything go to waste. The datachips he bought for her hold quite a lot of holo entries, but he thought for  _ sure _ that she’d forgo her usual habits to congratulate him on his impending nuptials. So he’s put out, but that’s all.

Work is good – his friends there have been planning a small celebration in honour of the upcoming event, which will correspond with the finalization of his Nabooian citizenship as well, another cause for happiness. They’re working on the engines of a new class of Starship, which Anakin had a hand in designing, much to his own pride. It’s a beautiful thing, sleek as ever and fast to boot. And of course, it handles like a charm while using as little excess power as possible. He’s in the middle of discussions with the lead engineer, working together to streamline a wiring issue Anakin discovered the day before, when Dineé interrupts.

“Skywalker – you turn off you comm?”

“Uh…” Anakin fiddles with his utility belt, and finds he does indeed have the comm silenced. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“You’ve got a call.”

He grabs her comm from her, sidling off to an exterior room where there’s less machinery noise.

“Anakin?”

“Padmé? What is it Angel?”

“Can you come home please?” And then, immediately after. “Is this a bad time?”

“Well…” With his free hand he rubs his forehead. “I was in the middle of a discussion with Sundaarek. Are you back already? I thought you’d be gone longer? Actually, you’ve hardly been gone long enough to even make it to Coruscant, much less stay for a vote. What’s going on?”

“Nothing is wrong. I promise.”

There’s weight to her plea. He can feel the words unspoken.  _ Trust me _ .

And he does trust her. He does.

“Okay. Is it urgent? I need to get this finalized so that Sundaarek can okay the changes for the new ship. We can’t get too far off the deadline.”

“Just come home as soon as you can, okay?”

He looks up at the chrono. “Give me half an hour at least, okay?”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

So she  _ is _ on planet. That much is at least clear, though nothing else is. Anakin restrains himself from seeking her out in the Force, exits back to the maintenance hangar and returns Dineé’s comm unit before finding Sundaarek again to pick up their conversation about the schematics.

It’s a little more than half an hour before he makes it out, everything finally just the way it ought to be before going into mass production. He races home, quite literally, considering that he walks to work each day, Artoo whistling irately as he’s left behind.

“Sorry buddy!” Anakin calls back over his shoulder, but doesn’t let up until he’s in front of the apartment lot, huffing his breaths. He punches his code into the stationary datapad and tries to straighten himself up as he takes the stairs to the apartment. There’s nothing to worry about – she said as much, and he could hear the truth in her words, but there was  _ something _ off. Something different. Something out of place, and he desperately wants to know what.

“Padmé?” He calls out as the door whooshes open. “Angel, are you here? I’m home.”

Silence is his only greeter.

Without bothering to toe off his boots, Anakin strides into the main living space, feels the sudden flare of life in the apartment. Not one, but two light-filled flames.

“Ani! I’m sorry for making you rush home.” Padmé rounds the corner, beaming at him, and throws her arms around his neck, kissing first his cheek and then his lips. “I have a surprise for you, my Love.”

“A Surprise?” Curious, he peers over her, more than around her, towards where the life light flares. “Padmé, who is here with you? I know there’s someone here with you, I can feel-“

Out from behind the kitchen wall, steps his mother.

“-someone…” he finishes rather belatedly, staring at her, open mouthed like a fish. “Mom.”

Her smile is the soft warm rays of Naboo’s sun magnified times a million. She’s weathered, and a little bit more grey, and lines crinkle at the corners of her eye, but it’s her.

“Mom!”

“My Ani!”

In three long strides, he’s crossed the distance between them and wraps his arms around her tightly, holding on like he’s never held on to anything else in his life. The tears that fall are tears of happiness from both of them, no more, no less. When it’s been a minute, maybe more, Anakin holds one arm out and glances up at Padmé, who joins them.

For the first time in his adult life, Anakin’s home is all in one place.


	16. Prophesied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we had to get here at some point, folks. 
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments.  
> Unbeta'd

There is a lot of hugging, and kisses. Plenty of both, shrouded in the happiest of tears, but that doesn’t stop them. It’s the most wonderful surprise in the world, having his mother with him again. Anakin can’t find the words to express his gratitude. Nothing compares. Nothing at all. A weight he hadn’t realized was there lifts from him in her embrace. He’s known she’s been safe, but it’s been nearly two years since he’s seen her – really,  _ really _ , seen her; holojournal entries don’t count – and he’s missed her more than even he knew.

He must say it, because she’s telling him that she knows, that she feels the same way. Delicately, Padmé extricates herself from their embrace.

“I’ll let you both alone for a while. Get us some refreshments.”

Anakin and his mother both nod, unable to take their eyes off of one another.

“You’re here, Mom,” he murmurs, wistful for her despite the fact that she’s standing before him. It’s unreal, so unreal that if he blinks, Anakin is sure she’ll disappear. That’s she’s nothing more than another waking vision like the ones he’s been having recently.

“I am, my handsome son, I am.” She reaches a hand up to his cheek, lays it there gently. “So tall! Look at you! Oh, stars, Ani! You’re grown. You’re all grown.” There’s disbelief in her voice too, though Anakin suspects it has less to do with the fact that they’re standing there together and more because there must always have been that fear buried deep within her that he might never make it to adulthood.

“I’ve missed you, Mom. I’ve missed you. So much.”

“Well, we are together now. And I am complete again.” Taking his hand, she leads him to the settee. “Sit with me, my little love.” He does, and she chuckles when she still has to look up at him. “Though, I suppose I can’t call you that anymore, can I?”

“You’re my mother,” he manages by way of answer, throat constricting.

“You’re engaged!” She changes the subject, grabbing his other hand in hers as she does, running her fingers over his ring. “I’m so happy for you, Ani. She’s wonderful. And this planet! It’s so beautiful. I’m so glad you’ve found your place, Ani. I’m so glad you’ve found your home.”

“I was never without one, Mom,” he assures her. “You’re my home, just as much as Padmé is. And you always will be. I promise.”

Shmi lets go of his hand, smooths down his hair, looks him over intensely, as if taking stock, updating the mental picture in her head. “I hardly recognize you. You’re a man. When you left…Ani I was so afraid.”

“You don’t have to be afraid, Mom.” He says it. He’s not sure he believes it, but the saying of it is a promise in its own right. “I have Padmé after all, and trust me, she’s a lot more fierce than she looks. Has to make up for her height somehow.”

His mother laughs. It’s a rare sound, more precious than the finest of stones in Padmé’s jewelry collection. “Don’t let her hear you say that!”

“Don’t let me hear him say what?” asks Padmé, choosing that moment to step in with a tray of drinks.

It’s such a normal thing, such an average, unimpressive, unremarkable moment, but Anakin counts it among the best of his life, that he’s been given such a gift amidst the turmoil in which he’s somehow found himself embroiled. They sit and chat, Shmi recounting the latest news from the farm as opposed to letting him hear it through the holojournal entries she’s already recorded, though she does dig out the datachip so that they can watch the recording of Cliegg, Owen, and Beru’s well wishes.

Padmé’s eyes rest on him as he watches his step-family’s messages; advice from Cliegg, Owen’s rather commiserative suggestions regarding engagements, Beru’s wholehearted proclamation of their future happiness. He gets the sense that she received her own warm welcome when she arrived on Tatooine – a thought which only now really travels the cycle to conclusion and in the middle of Beru’s parting words, he turns to her.

“You went to Tatooine alone?!”

“Anakin, please!” Padmé gives him a look. “I went with Captain Typho. Please, there’s no need to worry retroactively. We went straight to the homestead and came right back.”

He can’t help but glower, regardless, and has to skip back in Beru’s message because he missed the end of it completely. When it comes to an end for the second time, he looks back to his fiancée. “Thank you, for bringing her here.” It’s as close to an apology as he’s willing to come, but he leans down and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now,” she turns from him to his mother. “Shmi, I wish I could stay longer, but I do have a report to file and an audience with the Queen this evening. I’ll be back later, of course, but somehow I don’t think either of you will mind some good quality mother and son time. I took tomorrow off, so we can all spend the day together then.”

“Of course, Padmé. You must do your duty. And  _ I _ ,” his mother pats his hand fondly. “Will see to mine.”

“Of course.” Perfunctorily, he receives another kiss, this one on the lips, before his angel takes her leave.

“She’s always on the move, isn’t she?” His mother asks rhetorically. “Just like you. You’re well matched. I’m so glad for you, Ani. You can’t know how my heart is bursting with happiness for you. All of us were overjoyed to hear it. You’ll have the wedding here, I suppose?”

“On Naboo? Or in Theed?”

“Oh, I hadn’t-“

“Padmé wants to get married in the Lake Country. We have to take you there, Mom. It’s the most beautiful place in the world. You’ll never want to leave.” She’ll look lovely surrounded by lakes, he decides. Softer, less burdened. Though she is no longer a slave, life on Tatooine, even for the richest folk, isn’t easy, and the moisture farm has its own share of difficulties. He wants softness for her. Flower petals and green grass and the coolest blue waters he’s ever seen in his life. He wants goodness for her. Sweet fruits and hardy vegetables and the gentle caress of a warm breeze.

_ He  _ doesn’t want her to leave.

“Mom, life is good here.”

“Ani…” She says his name like she always does when she knows his mind better than he. “I can’t stay here. I love you my son, but I have a husband, a place in the world and order of things…”

“You could have a place here!” he cries. “You all could. Bring them with you. Bring them for the wedding and never leave. It’s safer here. For everyone. A better life, Mom. A good life.”

“Oh, Ani. The life I have is already good.” Shmi sighs and only when she wipes her hand over his cheek does he realize he’s shed tears. “I’ll talk to Cliegg. His whole life is on that farm. But, once upon a time, he would have sold it to free you. Do you remember?”

He does remember.

He can never forget.

“Maybe. Maybe, Ani. We’ll see, my little love. We’ll see.”

_ Well,  _ he figures. ‘ _ We’ll see’ is better than nothing. _

“Now,” Shmi picks up, changing the subject. “Dry your tears, Ani, and tell me everything that you haven’t told me yet. You’re so different. And it’s not just that you’re taller. You just…feel different, and you tell me only ever good things. I worry that-”

“It is mostly good things, Mom. I promise.” Anakin looks down at where their hands are intertwined. It’s so easy to engulf hers within his own, but looks are deceiving. Her hands are rough and strong, but also gentle and protective. His mother is a greater woman than he will ever be a man. His mother loves him, unconditionally. Just as Padmé said, he trusts her implicitly with his well being. Never once has she turned him aside, not even when he knows he’s frightened her beyond belief.

And he doesn’t need the Force to know that she’ll not turn him away now.

“Most of the time, things are great. I have a good job, friends. I’m happy. But, there are other things…complicated things. Things I don’t understand. I’m not sure I ever will.”

“Tell me, Ani. Share your burden. Don’t carry it alone.”

It takes him a while to figure out a way to say it, where to begin.

“Do you remember when I lost my arm? And you were still working for Watto? I didn’t have my new arm yet. I was at home while you worked. And you came back one day and everything was…”

It’s too much.

Her hand squeezes his. “Yes. I remember.”

“I’m trying to control it. I’m better. A lot better now. No more accidents. It was just…overwhelming. There’s… there’s  _ so much _ inside me. It’s hard to explain. I guess it’s the Force. But even the Jedi look at me like I’m-I’m  _ wrong _ or something. I’ve been to the Temple, where Qui-Gon Jinn wanted to take me. It felt like I was an exceptionally tall Wookie in a room full of Shawda Ubb. They were staring at me, even if they couldn’t see, I could feel it. I walked in, and every single person there knew. Qui-Gon says-“

“Qui-Gon?” His mother’s eyes are wide, almost fearful, when he realizes what he’s said.

“He is dead. But I can see him. He’s training me. He told me that I’m closer to the Force than any other living being.” Anakin hangs his head, squeezes her hands more tightly. “You always tell me that I’m meant to help people. And I know it’s true. But why? And how? How did I… _ become _ this? Whatever it is that I am…”

“You are a person, Ani!” Shmi’s voice is trembling. “You are a person. And my son. Don’t ever forget that. Before you are anything else, you are these things, do you understand me? Do you understand me, Anakin?” She lifts his head by his chin, forcing him to hold her gaze.

Swallowing, unnerved by the intensity of her tone, Anakin nods.

“I should have told you. Maybe not so long ago, but still sooner than this. I did not want to lose you. But I think it’s too late for that.”

Emphatic, he shakes his head, pulls her hand back to his and kisses her knuckles. “No, Mom. You’ll never lose me, Mom. Never.”

“Oh Ani, I wish that were true. But you are not mine to keep.’

“What is it, Mom? What haven’t you told me?” Tears leak from the corners of her eyes; she’s distressed, and his heart aches for her, but there’s nothing he can do. “What is it, Mom? Please tell me!”

Shmi takes a steadying breath. Her exhale is slow, infinitely slow.

“When Qui-Gon Jinn came to us, he knew you were special. He asked me about you. I liked to pretend that you were just another little boy who hid in his mother’s bed after a nightmare, but he was your chance, and I couldn’t give that up. So I told him the truth. I’ve heard the question much more than once. I usually let them decide for themselves. What point is there in telling the truth when no one would ever believe me anyways? I dreaded the day you would ask. I thought…it was inevitable. Every little boy in your situation would ask. But you never did. Sometimes, I wondered if you knew instinctively. If that’s why you never asked.”

“What, mom?” The trepidation rolling off of her in waves is infectious. “What did I never ask? What did Qui-Gon want to know?”

“He wanted to know who your father was.”

Like a rock hitting the bottom of a well, Shmi’s words echo in the silence between them.

“I’m not Force sensitive, Ani,” she continues, sounding a little urgent. “I’m not like you. It was a logical question to ask. But I’ve never had a logical answer.”

He’s never thought about it. Not even when it became clear that his mother would marry Cliegg. Not when the other children talked about their dads. He’d always had his mom, and it was enough. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Now, it looms over him like a storm cloud, this unknown truth, waiting to rain down torrentially.

“You see, Ani,” Shmi’s voice goes impossibly soft. Almost softer than Anakin can hear without straining. “You have no father. There was no one. No one but me. And then, suddenly, there was you. I don’t know how. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I-“

Mid-sentence, she simply gives up, and they sit together quietly.

Anakin doesn’t know what to think. As impossible as it all sounds, he knows it’s true. Feels it, just like he feels everything else that’s right or wrong, true or false. And she’s right. It’s almost as if he’s always known. He doesn’t even really feel surprised. It’s the questions she can’t answer that bother him more. Maybe if he knew how, he’d understand why, or vice versa. It doesn’t really matter. All her confession proves is what he already knew – that he’s truly not normal.

“And he didn’t tell you anything else?”

“Not really. He took what I said at face value. He believed me, for what it is worth.” Shmi’s eyes are glossy, and her lips press thin. “He was a good man. He wanted to help, I know that much. If he knew any more than me, he did not say. Anakin… what do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know. But I can ask him.”

There’s a flicker – the barest hint – of uncertainty in her eyes, but it's gone as soon as he sees it. “I don’t doubt you. Am I selfish? For wanting to keep you all to myself when I know you’re meant for so much more?”

Unable to bear it a moment longer, Anakin gathers her in his arms, rocking her as she had rocked him so many times before. “No, Mom. You’re not selfish. You’re the least selfish person I know. I love you so much, Mom. You haven’t lost me. Nothing can make you lose me. Nothing in the whole galaxy.”

It’s not a promise. Anakin’s made promises before about things he wasn’t certain of. This is different. This is a truth.

It cannot be changed.

“What will you do now, Ani?” his mom asks him after a while, pulling herself loose from his arms.

“I don’t know. There’s… a problem in the senate. I’ve more or less made it my priority. But I’m stonewalled on that. And I keep having waking visions. They’re not premonitions, they’re like…glimpses, I guess. I’ve my children, I think. And myself, as a child. And I had a dream. A nightmare, really. But it wasn’t like the premonitions either. There’s just so much, and I want to handle it all. I think I’m supposed to, but it’s just  _ so much _ . I want to help, and I am trying, but I feel stuck. Stagnant. I love my life here on Naboo. I love my work, I love Padmé. I want it so badly. A normal life. But not a normal person. What if I can’t keep any of this? What if I can’t do both? Live a normal life and do what I’m ‘meant’ to do? Padmé says that growing our love strong, building a foundation of trust…she says these things will bind us together, but I’m worried that it won’t be enough. I want it to be. She says that I’m not that different. Not really. But what if I’m just good at faking it?”

“Anakin, if anyone can do both, it is you.” With her hand she smooths the care from his forehead. “You have the biggest heart, my son. You say you feel like you have too much inside you. It’s your love. You have always cared about everyone, no matter what. You have always put others' needs ahead of your own desires. Hold to that. That is what Qui-Gon saw in you. That is how you were able to save your Padmé. That is how you will handle whatever it is that’s so wrong. Whatever it is you’re meant to fix. I believe it with my whole heart, Ani. Now you must believe in yourself, too. That is what will make the difference. Don’t let doubt into your good heart. Trust yourself. Trust your heart.”

_ Love is my strength. _

Anakin feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward, despite himself. “You sound just like Padmé. Or, maybe she sounds just like you.”

“Well, then you’re very lucky she asked you to marry her. She is so good for you, Ani. I really am happy for you.”

“I know. I don’t mean to be so negative. I really don’t. I just, I guess I just needed to hear all of that from you, just like Padmé said.”

“A smart woman. Wise. This is a good lesson to learn early – listen to you wife!”

Then, finally, he finds it within him to laugh, and then suddenly, they’re laughing together and the world doesn’t seem quite as dark as it had before.

When Padmé and his mother are both asleep, Anakin goes into the sitting room, positioning himself in a chair across from the settee, and falls into his meditation with the broken cleaner droid from the fourth floor maintenance closet. Before long, the softly glowing silhouette of Qui-Gon’s form brightens the unlit room.

“Your mother is here.” Qui-Gon is as abrupt as ever. “She’s spoken to you, hasn’t she?”

“Yes. She told me what you discussed the day that we met.”

“Ah. Regarding your parentage.”

“Yes, if it can indeed be called that. She said you never elaborated on her allegation. Why not?”

“Because she was your mother,” replied Qui-Gon simply. “She knows the truth of you better than anyone, even if she cannot put it into the words of Jedi prophets and scholars going back millennia.”

“And what is that truth?” Anakin throws back. “In the words of the scholars, I mean.”

He gets a look for his sass, but Qui-Gon doesn’t reprimand him. “I think you already have a passing fair understanding, yourself. I will tell you, but first, I’d like for you to tell me. Think, Anakin, of all the things you have experienced, all of the trials you have undergone. Your mother said to me, that day, that you were meant to help. Of course, she was speaking of your dear Padmé Amidala, but it goes beyond that. And you know it. What is it that you think you are meant for, Anakin. Truly.”

So Anakin takes stock. His mother’s words bring him to think of Tatooine, of his childhood, of his friends. And Qui-Gon’s words bring him to think of his early attempts at meditation, of the visions in the desert. Of the visions on Ilum. Of everything he’s done before and since.

“Help. I’m meant to help. And right now, the best way I can help the galaxy is by finding the Sith.”

Slowly, Qui-Gon nods. “And when you find this Sith, you will be tempted. The dark is seductive. It whispers of control, of power, of possibility. What will you do, Anakin, when you are confronted? When you are shown these supposed splendors. What will you do, when the darkness offers you on a silver platter everything you struggle so hard to attain now?”

The gleaming dagger of the void spectre’s sick grin haunts his memories.

“I will look to love for strength,” he decrees, his voice resounding with finality. “I control myself, nothing controls me; I cannot control the world, only the actions which I perform within it. I will act with love. I will act on behalf of others who cannot act. That’s what I’ll do.”

“And when the dark seeks to turn that love against you? What then, Anakin? What will you do then?”

Another flash – Padmé’s eyes, glazed and unseeing, hand clutching at her throat. A gleaming dagger to his heart, rending tearing.

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds the words refuse to come forth.

“Fret not, Anakin. There is time, still. You have come far. But you still have far to go. Don’t forget what you have just vowed.”

Despite his teacher’s gentle words, Anakin knows he has failed this test, only to realize afterwards that it was a test at all. Too often, that seems to be the case.

“Teacher?” he asks, more somber than curious. “What is the truth?”

Qui-Gon’s kind eyes grow sad. “The truth is that you are the Son of the Suns, your birth long ago foretold, a vergence in the Force, conceived in the wake of dire times. This is such a time; despair breeds darkness. It is an overwhelming, destructive emotion, one very difficult to counteract. When despair is strong, hope wanes. You, Anakin, you are the light in that darkness. You are the hope which shall quell that despair. Find the Sith. Destroy him. And bring balance. That is the truth, as it was prophesied long ago. And it will be the truth when we are but the distant memories of a galaxy long, long forgotten.”

* * *

_"…And in the time of greatest despair, there shall come a savior, and he shall be known as THE SON OF THE SUNS."_

―Journal of the Whills, 3:127

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose to use the Sun of the Suns prophecy for a variety of reasons, though there's a lot of debate as to whether or not it refers to Luke or Anakin, and now, well, 'canon' is a weird thing these days and I really don't feel like ranting about Disney anymore. Suffice to say, even though the Whills stuff is early ANH drafts, I think it's wicked neat and I just like playing with it. Also, I mean, I titled the damn story after is, so I guess I better use it. If you have questions about the whole thing, let me know, because its cool and I like to talk about it with people. Basically, I just sort of combined it with the 'Chosen One' stuff, which is little more than a later draft anyways. 
> 
> fun fact! on wookiepedia, the Chosen One Article is categorized under "Deities".


	17. Antecedent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read and review! It keeps me going, especially as my work starts to amp up with kids actually turning things in!
> 
> Unbeta'd ish.

Mostly, Anakin ignores the newest revelations about his person. More imminent things are happening, and he doesn’t want to mar his time with his mom by being too caught up in the bigger picture. So he puts it off for a time. He’s got enough of it, right now, after all. Maybe the Force will understand, since it’s his…creator and all. Shmi’s not staying with them for too terribly long anyways. Just long enough to meet Padmé’s family, really, which provides its own set of nervous energy, because there are still things about him that they don’t know – namely, his and his mother’s history – and he’s not keen on them finding out. In fact, if he could have it his way, no one knew would ever know about it. It’s not important now, anyways. It’s irrelevant. He’s free, why should anyone else need to know he was ever otherwise?

Luckily enough, it never comes up and he’s spared the humiliation of what he’s sure will be pitying stares. In fact, they rather hit it off, with Padmé’s parents alluding to the same question Anakin had begged of his mother; if the larger Skywalker-Lars family might consider relocating? There’d been mention too, as an additional reason, about the potential of future children, which leaves both Anakin and Padmé blushing.

All too soon, however, Shmi readies to go home. The last day before her departure, Anakin is at work when Dineé calls him over.

“You’ve got a Holocall from Coruscant.” His superior shakes her head. “You’re a popular fellow, Skywalker.”

The face – a human male - before him is unfamiliar, but professional looking.

“Hello?” he asks as he steps into frame.

“You are Anakin Skywalker? Head Mechanic with the Royal Naboo SVEC?”

Face heating, Anakin shuffles. “Well, I’m one of them, yeah. But I am Anakin Skywalker. How can I assist you?”

“Your services have been requested.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“Your services as a mechanic have been requested.” The bored looking gentleman repeats bluntly. “You are being reassigned to the Coruscanti branch of the SVEC.”

“Reassigned?” Anakin shakes his head. “I don’t understand. I  _ live _ here. Full time. On Naboo.”

“You work for the government. As such, you can be reassigned as is found to be necessary.”

Anakin channels all of his ire into the fist he’s casually made – out of fram – with his metal hand.  _ You control yourself. You cannot control everything else. _ “And who, might I ask, put this order through?”

“Why, the Chancellor himself, Mister Skywalker,” he’s informed rather imperiously, disregarding the surely stupefied look on Anakin’s face. “Do you wish me to contest your appointment?”

Well, he’d certainly like to, but a wave in the Force breaks over him, and he hesitates. “When is it requested that I arrive?”

The man’s bored look doesn’t change a bit. “As soon as is possible, sir. You are to be in charge of building and designing a new private vessel for the Chancellor. Only the best his homeplanet has to offer will do.”

“But-“ Anakin starts, confused. He’s  _ not _ one of the Naboo. Not by birth, and only by paperwork in another three days. He smiles thinly. “Who am I to contest the Chancellor? I can be there in ten days, absolute minimum. Does this meet with the Chancellor’s requirements?”

“It is acceptable. Congratulations on your new position, Mister Skywalker. The documents necessary for your transfer and containing your new position’s critical information are en route. Have a pleasant day.” And with that, the holo blinks out.

Displeasure seeps through him at the prospect, but the Force is insistent. Something about this is right, and when he takes the time to really think about it, it’s actually the answer to a lot of his problems regarding his search. Perhaps, if he’s on Coruscant, he’ll get used to the wrongness of the place and be able to probe the eye of the storm for any imperfections. Maybe, by virtue of his presence there, the Sith might be revealed to him.

And, he thinks, almost with relish, he may be able to get in some real saber practice against an opponent, which he desperately needs, to say the least. Katas are good for form, but real combat is another story altogether.

“What was that about?” Dineé asks as he returns to the maintenance hangar.

“I’ve been reassigned.” Despite his efforts, Anakin can’t keep the still lingering disappointment from his tone. “Apparently, Chancellor Palpatine wants me to construct his new personal shuttle. Something about him wanting someone from the cadre on Naboo to handle it.”

Dineé rolls her eyes. “Politicians. Think they can just uproot everyone’s lives at their whim.” Half a moment later, she looks up at him. “No offence to your fiancée, of course. She’s-“

Anakin laughs. “No need to say it. I already know she’s different.” Clapping a hand on her shoulder, he smiles. “Thank you, Dineé. Thank you for everything.”

“I’m going to miss you Skywalker.” She mimics his motion. “We all will. When do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow. I’m sorry. No time for a party.”

“Well-“

“It’s my last night with my Mom, otherwise, I’d be all for it.”

Dineé nods. “Of course. Well. I wish you only the best. And when it’s over, maybe they’ll let you transfer back?”

“Hopefully. I love it here. I love it here more than anything. But it will be nice to be with Padmé more. At the very least, we’ll definitely be back for the wedding. And you,” he points a finger. “Are invited. As is the rest of the crew. I don’t have a lot, but I do have all of you. You let me become a part of the family here and I’m eternally grateful that you didn’t leave me to my own devices, or I swear I’d have become a hermit of some kind!”

“You’re irreplaceable. We’ll be waiting for you to come back. Now, let's get out here and tell everyone so they get one last chance to joke around with you before you disappear to Bigger and…well, maybe not better, but definitely Bigger things, okay? We can take care of things here.”

As he gives his assent, his datapad buzzes with the forms he’d been assured would be arriving. He doesn’t have to like the path he’s on, he reminds himself. Once it’s done and over with, once he’s found the Sith and destroyed him, maybe then he can finally live his own life. And maybe, just maybe now that he’ll be on Coruscant, that can be sooner rather than later.

When he finally arrives home – a little later than usual, due to the hubbub of his abrupt goodbye party – and gives Padmé and his mother the news, Padmé seems perturbed. His mother must pick up on it, but she says nothing and instead of discussing his new position, they help Anakin pack before spending the rest of the time in easy company. All talk about work is prohibited, as set down by his mother the second day of her visit, so they talk about other things. Padmé asks about Anakin as a child and his mom shares many stories, some embarrassing, some not. Unlike with the Naberries, his mom does not skirt the issue of their former slavehood with Padmé; Anakin finds that it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. A few times in the past the topic has come up between them before, but she never makes a big deal out of it. She’s good like that.

“Wait, so Ani wasn’t born on Tatooine?”

“No, he wasn’t.” Shmi diverges from the story she is telling, and Anakin perks his ears up.

“We arrived on Tatooine when I was three, didn’t we? I think I remember our arrival.”

“Yes, you were so little then. I could still pick you up.” Shmi’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “It was easier to keep you out of trouble when you were smaller than me, even if you did wriggle about so.”

“Mom!”

“Where was Anakin born?” Padmé asks, evidently curious.

“On a ship. In space. I don’t know the name of it anymore. After that…we were on a few different planets. I don’t remember very well anymore. Sometimes we weren’t told.”

These are things Anakin has never inquired about. Things he never wanted to know and still doesn’t. His mother’s home planet for example. How old she was when she fell into slavery. The answers to such questions are sure to break his heart, and he doesn’t want to put his strong, beautiful mother through the pain of having to remember either.

Just as well he doesn’t ask; Shmi doesn’t offer, and Padmé’s curiosity seems to end there.

“Oh isn’t that perfect Ani?” She sounds so joyful. Genuinely joyful. And she is. Only Padmé can find good among the bad. “Of course you want to travel the stars! You were born amongst them! With your head above the clouds instead of your feet on the ground. How appropriate!”

“It is indeed,” his mom replies, and then continues on with another story, about the first time he’d ever flown a speeder.

Due to the time constraints, they spend very little excess time on Tatooine. Just enough to say goodbye – and hello and goodbye again – before leaving.

Cliegg hugs him hard, staunchly denying the tears in his eyes before taking his wife into his arms for a warm welcome home. Beru is with them too, and Owen, both of whom give both Padmé and Anakin well, giving the requisite hugs. Shmi gives her soon to be daughter-in-law a kiss on the cheek and imparts some words so softly that Anakin cannot hear them, and then steps back. While Cliegg speaks off to the side with Padmé, Shmi takes Anakin by the hand and guides him over towards the ship, where they sit down on the ramp.

“Ani, promise me that what I told you won’t change you. I can tell that you’ve been trying not to think about it.” She takes his flesh hand in hers and kisses it swiftly. “You are my son first above anything else, Anakin. You are Padmé’s love. Don’t forget that. Promise me?”

“I promise, Mom. I won’t forget.” He pulls her in then, almost crushing, to his chest, her head just beneath his chin, and he can feel the tears soaking into his shirt.

“You are my whole world, Anakin.” It’s barely a whisper, but he still hears it, muffled in his clothes. “Come back to me. Come back safe. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.” Swallowing heavily, Anakin nods and blinks the tears from his own eyes. This parting is different from the last by far.

Unnervingly, it feels far more final than Anakin is comfortable with.

Then, abruptly, almost like she’s been electrocuted, Shmi pulls away from him completely and stands, stepping backwards a little.

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

Anakin stands too, swallows hard. Nods.

He doesn’t have it in him to say goodbye back.

Another seven days of hyperspace travel later, Anakin and Padmé arrive back on Coruscant. Typho meets them in orbit, escorting them to the surface below. As always, the ecumenopolis is a hive of activity. Anakin shivers as he readjusts to the population, to the darkness licking at his heels. It’s lucky that they’ve arrived at nightfall, so they can get in a full night’s sleep before beginning work the next day.

Holiday over – as much as they could term it a holiday, that is – there are no more restrictions on their conversation, and while they lay in bed, Padmé starts by bringing up his new job.

“Are you excited? It didn’t seem like you were. I’m not sure what to think of this, really. The Chancellor is…a demanding person, but he’s never been concerned about his personal spacecraft before. He doesn’t really  _ go _ anywhere. I don’t see why he’d even need something new, much less one personally commissioned from you. I mean, if he was going to commission it from someone,  _ I _ know you’re the best, but generally that sort of thing isn’t just…handed out to anyone the Chancellor wants.”

Anakin sighs. “I agree. It’s odd. It feels wrong. I don’t really know what to make of it.”

“You don’t…I don’t know?” She rolls over to face him. “ _ Feel _ anything in the Force?”

“Not yet,” he admits. “It’s hard to, here. Everything is shrouded, and I haven’t found the edge yet to peel the curtain back. But when I was given the assignment, back on Naboo? I could sense that taking the job was the right thing to do. Doesn’t mean I like it, though.”

“We’ll be back on Naboo soon, especially now that your mother and my family have met and started talking wedding details. I want to be married in the spring, Ani, when all the flowers are in bloom.”

The conversation dwindles after a while, Padmé falling into sleep before Anakin finds it within himself to do so, so he tries to meditate instead, using the soft rhythm of her breath to lull him there. Thoughts swirl and coalesce in his mind as he works at putting all the pieces together, the indications he’s received from the Force, the information he’s learned about the politicians, what little he’s been able to scrounge of Dooku from the holonet, even the dream warnings which had so panicked him. With all of it simmering just below the surface, he reaches his senses out, tentatively into the Force. It’s a blind reach, tempered by the strange murky calm of the dark storm’s unnatural eye, but it’s a start, and he thinks maybe, that just a bit of the fog lifts.

“Wait where did you say you’re supposed to go?” Padmé asks him, craning her neck to look back at him.

“Stop that, you’re going to ruin your braid,” he admonishes, tugging gentle on the strands of her hair in his hands to keep them straight. “Let me finish this section, or stay still, or both.”

“Fine. But you didn’t answer my question!”

“The Senate Building. I’m supposed to meet with Sly Moore. Isn’t that the Umbaran woman from the senate ball?”

“Anakin, that’s the Chancellor’s personal aide!” Padmé almost turns again, but aborts the movement, though Anakin can still see the pent up energy thrumming through her. How she manages to be still and serene as anything in the senate, he’s not sure, because she’s almost as impatient as he is on a good day. “I thought for sure they’d send you to the docking yards or one of the factories. Maybe Sienar’s, though I can’t imagine he’d be too happy to have you underfoot. I’ve heard that he doesn’t like to be undermined. Too many cooks in the kitchen, you know? But this…Anakin I’m sure he means to meet with you directly!”

It’s a little daunting, to be sure, but he  _ has  _ met the Chancellor before, if only the once. And that was with Padmé. He shrugs, before remembering that she can’t see him, then says; “Well, what’s wrong with that? He’ll probably tell me all the stupid fancy things he wants me to incorporate into the ship or something. Or maybe I’ll be introduced to the designer. You never know.”

“Anakin, you don’t understand. I don’t suppose I’ve ever mentioned it before. It’s  _ extremely difficult _ for even me, a Senator, to meet directly with the Chancellor! I’ve been trying to get a meeting for some time and I’ve been pushed out! And I’m not the only one!” She wilts a bit, despite her indignation. “I don’t mean to be upset at you. It’s just so frustrating! I sincerely worry about his priorities that he can make time to meet with you about some private shuttle, but he can’t meet with me, or Onaconda Farr to talk about relief proceedings on Rodia? The famine there is just getting worse and something needs to be done! Ani!”

Yes, she’s prone to venting to him, but this? True discouragement? It’s new.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Too long, Ani. Too long. I’m sorry. I’m just so-so-“ She slumps back in the chair. “I’m scared, Anakin. I’m over frustrated. I’m over angry. I’m frightened. What’s becoming of our Republic? Even if this war ends, we will not be the same.”

Quickly, Anakin ties off the ends, and kneels, spinning her chair so that they can see one another. “My Love, don’t give up hope. The Republic needs you. I don’t know why he’s refusing to see you, but if there’s  _ anything _ I can do-“

“No, Ani.” She shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. I can’t cheat the system and still champion its normal function at the same time. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Well, the Chancellor’s not right to prevent normal functioning of the Republic. And if he’s making it impossible for you to go about things the way you normally would, isn’t it reasonable for you to do what you have to to get things done?”

Padmé presses her lips together. “I wish. Normally I’m not a proponent of logical fallacies, but I’d worry it’s a slippery slope. We have to keep things functioning as normally as we can, or we risk the integrity of the Republic’s function during the next chancellorship.”

“But they’re not functioning! You said so yourself.” Anakin pulls away. “I don’t understand any of this and all it does is upset me. This is why it’s a good thing that you’re the politician and I’m not. Let me finish your hair, or we’ll both be late.” For a while neither of them speak, but there’s still disquiet between them. “Padmé? Do you ever think you might be too good for the system? Too staunch? Do you ever worry that you get less done because you do things the right way?”

There’s the sound of a breath that might just be the predecessor to a surprised laugh. “I don’t know about ‘too good’, Ani, but I do know that what I get done, I can at least say was done right, that as few people were compromised in the process. I’ve made poor decisions before, – don’t romanticize my contributions, Ani – but at least at the end of the day, I can say that the decisions I did make, I tried to make with the people’s best interests in mind.” 

“So, come with me,” he offers, off hand. “Reschedule your first meeting and come with me to see the Chancellor. I can be your excuse. Then you ask him if he can meet with you. He can’t very well deny you to your face, right? It’s not like you’d be going behind his back then, right?”

While he finishes pinning the mass of twisted braids together at the nape of her neck, Padmé appears to consider the offer. “I don’t know, Ani.”

“What harm can it do? I certainly don’t know my way around the Senate building. You’re just showing me where to go. And I  _ am _ nervous. The last time I met the Chancellor, we were together. You’re so much better mannered than I am. What if I do or say something wrong? You can coach me, if you’re there with me? And you’ll make me feel more at ease.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“You’re done, by the way.”

Padmé lifts a thinly wrought golden headband, securing it in place atop her head. “Well, we have the entire trip to the senate building for me to think about it, I guess.”

It’s not a no. In fact, it’s probably a lot closer to a yes.

“Alright.”

“But,” she turns to him, pointing with the dangling bit of an earring pinched between her fingers. “I am  _ not _ accompanying you in an official capacity. It’s just…me showing my husband around.”

“Of course.” He’s got her.

“And  _ if – _ that’s a very big if, mind you – if I decide to do this, I’ll do the mentioning of Rodia, not you, okay? I don’t want people thinking that you can be used as part of some sort of political ploy. I know you’re a big strong sort-of Jedi, but let me protect you in this, please. The political world is vicious. I’ve been asked about you quite a bit since the ball and I want any access to you that my colleagues get to be released on our terms and our terms alone.” Stiffly, she stands. “I do not like this appointment at all. I do not like that he asked for you by name, and is couching under patriotic pretense! I know I said it last night; I know you’re capable. You are definitely the best, but it’s too particular to be a coincidence. I’m absolutely positive that this is some political ploy.”

Earnest, pleading, she places her hands on his chest and looks up at him. “Anakin, be careful. The Chancellor is an excellent speaker. And powerful. Be careful what you say in his presence. And be careful of what he says in yours. It could be nothing, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

Anakin is inclined to agree with her, especially if his suspicions regarding the positioning of the Sith are true.

Suddenly, he’s rather glad that he did as much research as he had on the people the Chancellor is most connected with. Going into what appears to be such an innocent endeavour blind would prove to be all too disconcerting for his liking.

They leave posthaste – Anakin in a rather fancier version of his usual uniform, based upon his itinerary for the day. He flies them himself in the private speeder Padmé keeps on planet, with her pointing giving directions and Artoo whistling in the back. He’s hidden his lightsaber in the completed secret compartment; he doesn’t know why, because he hasn’t really worn it on his belt since the ball, but as they near the circular structure, he suddenly has the rather irrational fear that he’s naked without it. 


	18. Feint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I wrote this and I'm still mad. Like, Palpatine sucks. Bit of a shorter one, but it begged to end there.
> 
> I've had some comments concerned about Anakin's allegiances. Let me just say - there is no real plan to this story. I just sit down every day and go hmmm, what'm I gonna write next and whatever gets posted is whatever came from my fingers that day. I do have a very, very basic idea of my direction, but that's it. Which is why the tags update as I go. To be perfectly honest, I didn't even know I was going to be at this point ever. This whole thing was just me wanting to write what would happen if Anakin remained a slave and I just...haven't stopped? 
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much, as always, for your kind and considerate critique and commentary. I thrive on it.

The Senate Rotunda is opulent though not as fair as Naboo’s architecture. It lacks personal touch, just like the majority of what Anakin’s seen of Coruscant so far. Impersonal but grand, the halls are wide and silent in a way that Jedi Temple’s halls are not. In that place, reverence played a part in the atmosphere. Here, the opposite seems to be true. While it is a place meant for governance, no one is really talking at all.

Probably a really good indicator of the majority of the Republic’s problems, Anakin thinks, if what Padmé has indicated is anything to go by, which it probably is. He imagines that the only time these halls are full of chatter is when something major has come into play, or when two people very vehemently disagree on a public scale.

“Remember,” Padmé whispers to him as they hurry across the red carpeting. “The Chancellor knows our connection. He’s shrewd and he knows full well that I haven’t exactly been on even terms with him lately. He’ll try and use you, Ani. Be careful.”

“I will. But, what I don’t understand is why he’s so important. I thought the chancellor’s main role was to call special sessions when needed. Isn’t it the Vice Chancellor who has more power? Mas Amedda? Isn’t his job to open, close and moderate debate on any motions brought before the Senate?”

“Yes,” Padmé nods emphatically. “That is how things are supposed to be. The Vice Chancellor really controls the agenda, but,” She wears a thin, disapproving look. “In this ‘time of war’, Palpatine has been voted more special emergency powers. Aided by Vice Chancellor Amedda.”

“Right.” It’s a lot to remember, all these intricacies, but he is trying. “Right. Well, I’ll try to keep everything that’s discussed technical if I can.”

“Well, you can try. But-“

“I know, politeness, right? If he tries to make conversation, I should oblige him.”

If anything, Padmé looks even more strained by the suggestion. “Unfortunately. See Ani, you’re not half bad at this.”

“In  _ theory _ . In practice it is another matter altogether my Love.”

They stalk the inner atrium, seeing a few sentients milling about, and skirt the Grand Convocation Chamber, empty of its denizens in this off-session time slot, towards the Concourse so that Padmé can duck into her office to drop off Artoo and retrieve some files on the pretense that she’d taken them home with her, conveniently, before they take the turbolift down into Chancellery Secretariat. Beside the double doors, two red robed guards stand at attention. It throws Anakin off a little bit, considering that the traditional colour of the senate security is blue, from what he’s seen so far from his minimal access to the building. But it’s more than that, somehow. They feel strange, resonate wrongly in the Force. It does nothing to ease his nerves as they enter into the antechamber, and is made only worse by the dour face Umbaran who greets them.

“Senator Amidala, you are not expected.”

“No, Aide Moore, I am not.” Everything about Padmé radiates poise. It’s incredible, Anakin thinks, seeing her in her element. Like a switch flips and she’s an almost completely different person. “I’m here accompanying my fiancé, Anakin Skywalker, who has a meeting with the Chancellor.” 

“Mister Skywalker is indeed on the itinerary,” Moore replies drolly, her face belaying no expression. “I will alert the Supreme Chancellor to your presence.”

Everything is cold. Even under two layers, Anakin knows he has goosebumps. Beside him, Padmé shifts, the long brocade of her skirts making a shushing sound across the floor. Anakin’s so paranoid even that slight sound makes him flinch. His pulse throbs through his veins  _ wrong wrong wrong _ .

This, this is the eye. This place and the people in it are blank. He reaches for the Force and finds…nothing.

Just nothing.

Anakin swallows hard, trying to suppress the beginnings of nausea.

_ Wrong wrong wrong wrong wron- _

A hand clasps his and that time he actually takes a step back. It’s only Padmé, though. Only Padmé.

“Anakin, it’s alright. I’m right here.”

He simply shakes his head. The thought of telling her what’s wrong is drowned out by the nervous energy building within him, the unrestrained paranoia grown from seemingly nowhere. Only moments have passed, but it seems like a lifetime before Sly Moore returns from the anterior chambers. She looks just as deeply unphased as before, but her eyes are narrowed on the Senator beside him.

“The Chancellor will see you now.” Her bald head cocks to the side just slightly, sending a tingle up the back of Anakin’s neck.

Only Padmé’s sure steps forward encourage Anakin to do the same. Together, they pass through the doors that Moore indicates.

The first thing Anakin notices is light. There is a massive window behind them, panoramic in length, overviewing the entirety of the Senate District Plaza. Daybright and blinding, the light stuns him from his discomfort, causing him to blink rapidly, though Padmé is unbothered. Shapes coalesce, and Anakin notices that beside these doors too, stand another pair of red guards. The dark shadow of a richly carved wood desk on a raised section of the room looks down three or so steps from before the window, and a shape – a person, a man – stands peering out over the cityscape.

“Ah, you’ve arrived. Good.” Supreme Chancellor Palpatine turns to face them, though Anakin cannot make out anything more than his rather unimpressive silhouette, that is, until he descends to the step immediately before them. His expression is one of genial tolerance, just as it was when they met at the Senate Ball. “Senator Amidala. What a pleasure to see you as well, however unexpected.”

Demurely, Padmé inclines her head. “Anakin required an escort. It’s not every day that a mechanic is asked to visit the Chancellor in his chambers.” Though her tone is perfectly amiable, Anakin knows better.

“Indeed.” A wide, sycophantic smile stretches his features. Though, hardly any average engineer and mechanic do we have before us? Which, I am sure, you know better than most, Senator, being that he is your own intended.”

“There is none better, and though I may be accused of bias, I assure you I speak only the truth.”

“Which is of course why I have selected him for this role. A very important role, indeed, young man, as you will essentially be seeing to my protection. There have been many reported attempts on my life, of late, and ever more threats from those cowardly, intolerable Separatists. Such a ghastly business. It is to my great dismay that I should be Chancellor under such circumstances, though I have always endeavoured to do my utmost to preserve the function of the Republic.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” Anakin forces himself to speak. “And I will do my utmost to help craft a sufficient transport.”

“Indeed, I have no doubt of your capabilities. The plans are over on that table.” With an offhanded gesture, he indicates a conference table to the left of the desk, on the main floor level. “Rudimentary. I would like you to do something…rather more impressive with them.”

“I’ll take a look.” Not daring to glance aside to Padmé, Anakin strides towards the table.

“Chancellor, if I may, before I take my leave-“ she begins, and Anakin does his best to keep an ear on the conversation, though she’s descended into more hushed tones than he’s precisely capable of hearing. It’s for the best, of course, that he appears to be as out of the loop politically as he possibly can. For more reasons than that it wouldn’t be in Padmé’s best interest to appear otherwise. He can only hope that she’ll get the meeting she needs out of this impromptu opportunity.

Only glancing over the schematics – printed astonishingly on flimsy – briefly, Anakin attempts to calm himself, to rather pathetic effect. Without his easy connection to the Force, all his senses are suffocated, his paltry control fraying.  _ My love is my strength. _ Padmé, there with him still.  _ I control myself, nothing controls me. _ He breathes, deeply, uses his view of the blueprints to find that easy meditative connection that serves to buffer him from the rest of the world.  _ I cannot control the world, only the actions which I perform within it. _

It will suffice. For now. Anakin returns himself to his surroundings. Though the wrongness persists, he is no longer ruled by it. Instead, he exists adjacent to it. Aloof. Removed. It helps. Padmé’s voice filters back to his hearing.

“-will look forward to our meeting then. Thank you, Chancellor.”

“Of course, Senator Amidala. It is my duty is it not?”

“It is indeed.”

He turns and sees that she is looking at him. “I must go now, Anakin. I will see you later.”

“For lunch?”

“Yes. You know where my office is. Comm me if I’m not there.”

“I will.”

And with that, she is gone, leaving him to face the malice of wrongness so potent beneath the Senate Rotunda by himself.

“Have you seen enough to get a handle on things, my boy?” The Chancellor asks as he approaches.

“It’s a start. Sienar,” Anakin points to the name inscribed at the top. Just as Padmé had predicted. “That’d be Raith Sienar, I suppose?”

“You know of Sienar Technologies then? Oh, what am I saying.” The Chancellor chuckles. “Of course you do! Bright mechanic like you. There will likely be more of these produced, not just for myself. So I’d like things on the exterior to remain the same, you understand.”

“For your protection,” Anakin infers easily.

“For my protection. Yes.”

Anakin gives a little shrug. “It’s certainly workable. Am I to understand, Chancellor, that you’d like for me to suggest design alteration as well as oversee the construction?”

“Unless that’s asking too much?”

Despite the phrasing, Anakin’s sure that whatever the Chancellor says is what will go. “It is not too much, Sir. Have you a projected timeline on production?”

“Hmm, yes, I do suppose you’d be concerned about that. What with your impending nuptials.” And just like that, so simply, easily, the topic is changed. “Do tell, I’ve heard so very little, how did you come to meet Senator Amidala? She seems perfectly taken with you, and you with her, of course. I doubt there’s a sentient alive who is not completely taken with her, save perhaps the Viceroy of the Trade Federation.”

It’s so hard not to be amused, the way that the Chancellor phrases it, and Anakin can’t help but laugh a little himself. “No, I don’t suppose that would be an easy sell. I met the Senator during her tenure as Queen,” Anakin hedges, remembering himself. “She is simply the most incredible person I have ever met. You speak the truth. It is impossible not to love her.”

“Well, I wish you all happiness. I can’t imagine it would take too much time to order the shuttle to production? But I know very little of these things. I only wanted to meet with you to establish a rapport, of course. I am, for all intents and purposes, your client, and as such, felt it would be in good taste to communicate with you directly about my requirements for the design’s alterations. Much easier and more efficient than attempting to do so remotely, don’t you agree?”

Frankly, Anakin does. “It will most certainly be simpler, and is less likely to incur miscommunications in the process. I appreciate your thinking of my convenience in this case; few customers do consider that my convenience tends to reflect their own. It is very good of you to be so understanding, especially given what I imagine must be your own terribly hectic schedule, being the Supreme Chancellor, and all.”

“Oh it’s hardly any trouble, Anakin. May I call you Anakin?”

Anakin recalls Padmé’s frustration early that morning, or the plight of the people struck by famine on Rodia, languishing because the Chancellor had denied her a meeting for so long. The duplicitous is sickening. “You may.”

They go over the schematics for a while, the Chancellor describing in the vaguest of terms the sorts of things that he would like Anakin to do, while Anakin attempts to rephrase in more technical terms, sketching out the elements directly onto the master schematics as he does just to clarify. It’s nicer than he thought it would be, seeing this commission through. The simple fact of the matter is that he likes working with ships. Designing them, fitting them together, the whole lot of it. Only because of the meditative nature of the pastime is it able to distract him from the incessant cold, the persisting wrongness that permeates the chambers with its blinding miasma.

“Well, my boy,” the Chancellor says after almost a standard hour. “I suppose this will be more than enough to get you started. I would like regular reports on your progress of course, and should you require my input on  _ anything _ , please don’t hesitate to comm Aide Moore. She’ll see to it that I am alerted to your needs.”

“Thank you, Chancellor, but I wouldn’t wish to take up any more of your valuable time than is strictly necessary,” Anakin manages to say as he rolls up the plans and slides them into the protective canister. “I’m sure you have much more important things to tend to than reconfirming my every question. I’ll try to make certain that I have batches for you, instead of a sparse few, to cater to your convenience, or that if I do send along a lone query, it is only one of the utmost importance.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense!” The Chancellor cries, his arm comes around his back, guiding him forward in an almost conciliatory manner. Fighting the urge to stiffen at the unlooked for contact, Anakin graciously walks in step with the Chancellor towards the door. “My boy, whatever you need, don’t hesitate. There is time in this old schedule for a few more meetings here and there. Security is important! If the safety of the Republic’s personnel cannot be guaranteed, how can its citizens expect the same?”

“How indeed.” Anakin turns and gives a curt bow. “Chancellor.”

Palpatine beams. “Anakin.”

And just like that, it's over.

Anakin walks out the doors, feels Sly Moore’s gaze on him, even though when he looks, she appears to be engrossed in whatever it is she’s working on. It’s a ruse, he thinks, but makes no comment to her as he stride past the remaining two guards and out into the hall towards the turbolift.

Once safely inside, and thoroughly alone, Anakin runs a hand over his face. He’s tired, exhausted almost, and it’s barely yet midday. The muscles in his back are tight, his neck is sore – though that could easily be attributed to the leaning. It’s almost as though he’s just run a 20 klick race in the hours’ time spent within that office, but the farther away he grows from it, the more the Force trickles back to him, like water down the parched throat of a desiccated man, cool, clear, refreshing.

But even this touch is still tainted by the murk.

Even though he comms Padmé immediately, he hangs up before she can respond, and then goes back to her suites. The comm unit buzzes, but he ignores it. Artoo is there, right where they left him, and whistles happily for the company, but no one else is present, exactly as he’d hoped.

“Perfect. Come with me, buddy. We’ve got some investigation to do.”

As they walk down the Concourse, Anakin projects ‘see-me-not’ as much as he can around both himself and Artoo; though very few sentients are in the halls, most of them are guards and he’s really not looking to put Padmé to any difficulty for the less than legal plan he’s of a mind to execute. It’s not terribly difficult to identify the rooms belonging to the Kuati delegation. More than once he’s heard Padmé groaning about the downright spiteful and often racist proclivities of that sector’s Senator. It’s nearing lunchtime, and when he reaches out with the Force, he finds that the offices are empty.

“Artoo, open the door would you?”

In moments, the codes are wrested from the mainframe computer and the trust astromech has the doors sliding open. Together they slip inside, Anakin shutting the door behind them with the stray press of a button.

The chambers are laid out almost exactly the same as Padmé’s, so it takes little time to find the Kuati Senator’s desk, and a quick nudge of the Force to open the locked drawer where he finds a datapad secured. “Alright Artoo, you’ve got to help me slice this. I don’t have the same sort of experience in this particular field that you do.”

It takes a little doing, nothing traceable at least, but Artoo successfully instructs Anakin on the navigation around the pad’s security protocols.

“Alright, and now I need to get in from here to the Chancellor’s schedule. Not the one the Senators can see. His personal one. He’s got to have a special one. I bet you anything, buddy, that that Sly Moore woman is the one who keeps it. Let’s see what we can find.”

This endeavour is more difficult. More than once, Anakin almost gives up, but a while later a few suspect files are breached, and he quickly clones them to his own pad frequency remotely, erases his tracks with Artoo’s support and then makes for the door.

“Don’t suppose you can make it so I wasn’t here, can you?” he asks as they exit, standing as tall and proud as he can; once, Padmé told him that the key to fitting in was looking like you belonged in a place. He’s not sure if it is because it makes you feel like you belong, and so people naturally assume it, or if it just helps people slide their eyes off of you, or both.

Artoo trills at his request, reconnected into the mainframe port and moments later, confirms with a beep that they have effectively been erased from the security system’s memory. Just down the concourse, Anakin see’s Padmé heading in his direction.

“I’m sorry, Ani, I saw that you commed, but I didn’t reach it in time. I was in a meeting.”

“No problem, my love. Lunch?” he asks, redirecting. She’s none the wiser, and none the wiser she’ll stay.

“Starving.”

They eat in the dining commons, just beneath the concourse. It’s convenient, but more formal than either of them are particularly inclined towards. She tells him aimlessly of her day, conveying nothing of any real importance to him; that conversation will keep until later, when they are safe and secure in her – their – apartments. The same is true of his own real findings, so the majority of what he tells her relates to neither the schematics, which are, essentially, classified, nor his reading of the room. It’s the most boring lunch he’s ever eaten in her presence over their two and some years together to say the least.

“What are you intending on doing for the rest of the day?” she asks between sips of her water as their meal comes to an end.

“Well,” Anakin begins, and here is yet another thing he cannot share, his real intentions. “I’m supposed to head to Sienar Technologies to see about the ship.”

“Of course.” She seems to understand his implication. “You’ll pick me up here this evening?”

“Yes. For certain.”

“Wonderful. Well, I have to go. Another meeting. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

One chaste kiss later, they’re parting ways, Artoo following behind Anakin towards the speeder.

He doesn’t head towards Sienar Technologies.

Instead, he heads to the Temple District, pulling out his comm as he does. It wouldn’t do not to be expected, especially when he’s unsure who might or might not be there to greet him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I channeled my brother so much for this - he works in aerospace engineering and customers are THE WORST there, just like everywhere else. I guess, I just tried to make Palpatine come across as the customer who is too good to be true.


	19. Fortifications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. I won't be posting anything until probably Saturday, and then not again until Monday, mostly for religious reasons - even stuck at home, I'm sure to be busy with my family obligations. 
> 
> Hope this is enough to tide you over. I watched Christopher Robin today, first time since the theatre, and goodness Ewan's gorgeous eyes just make me want to melt. Guess some of the emotion from such a sad, lovely movie translated into this chapter. I'm having fun adding to the cast too!
> 
> unbeta'd

Kenobi meets him at the main doors. It’s different, entering through there as opposed to through the public entryway. Imposing, grand, expansive. No words can describe how impossibly small Anakin feels as he walks between the pylons; even Artoo tweedles in awe behind him. Obi-Wan is unphased. How many times has he made this exact same walk? Countless, Anakin imagines. This place is his home. The Jedi knows no other.

Once, perhaps, this may have been Anakin’s home, too. The consideration is almost impossible to imagine. A world where he had been freed in his mother’s place. Where he became a Jedi instead of a slave, where the man leading him through the Temple halls would have been his teacher, not Qui-Gon’s ghost.

A very different world indeed.

“It’s good to see you, Anakin. I confess I hadn’t anticipated that you would return so soon to Coruscant, much less the Temple after our last meeting. You said that you have important information for us?” Kenobi moves quickly, for all the serenity of the place, though not in haste.

“Yes, I do. And it wasn’t exactly of my choosing to return, but that’s unavoidable now. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we can speak. In lieu of the situation, I’ve been appointed your primary contact here at the Temple, that is,  _ when _ I’m at the Temple. You’ve caught me just returned from a mission. Ah,” he pauses, punching a button on the pad. “Here we are. After you.”

Anakin steps into the chamber. It’s rather barren, dark, slats of light bursting through a set of shades drawn low over the windows. The only other light is the blinking glow of Artoo’s readouts.

“Have a seat.” Obi-Wan gestures to the round cushioned things Anakin supposes can be considered a chair. Maybe. “We won’t be disturbed here. I’ve checked the room out for us for the occasion. Better than if we made ourselves comfortable in my quarters, I assure you. I fear we wouldn’t have the privacy you may require, but when all is said and done, if you have the time and inclination, perhaps we might indulge in some less work related talk over tea?”

It's amusing to Anakin that this is the man heralded as the Great Negotiator. For all his excellent command of words, and the utterly sincere and effortless charm he exudes, it’s clear from the first time they met that this man who speaks is a great pretender. Maybe it’s not as obvious to others. Really, he thinks, Obi-Wan just looks tired.

“Whatever you believe is best, Obi-Wan.”

“Excellent. But the latter is an invite, not a requirement. I would genuinely enjoy your company. I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Of your own volition?”

“Yes. Yes I promise you that.”

“Well, I guess that will depend on how much time this takes. I do have somewhere else that I need to be, and I’m a little concerned about the questions it might bring up if I’m not at least a little on time.” The way the Chancellor had been acting, he’s almost positive that Padmé is right that the assignment has very little to do with his actual mechanical capabilities. “I’m here, on Coruscant, and with you right now, because I was transferred here from my position on Naboo. In an official capacity, I am now a direct employee of the Supreme Chancellor.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t bother hiding his surprise, physically or mentally. “Pardon?”

“He requested that I personally oversee the customization of his new shuttle for his…safety. The official reasoning is that I’m one of Naboo’s best, which is faulty logic really, considering that my citizenship papers haven’t even gone through yet. Padmé – Senator Amidala, I mean – well, she thinks that he wants to use my connection with her for his own gain. It’s no secret that we’re engaged, and even less of a secret that I’m not exactly politically inclined. I’m the weak link, as it were. Liable to let things slip, give him insight. She doesn’t trust him, thinks that he’s using the war as a power grab.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan’s brow furrows, but his true reaction is unreadable. “And what do you think, Anakin?”

He shrugs. “I think she might be right, to an extent. I had a meeting with him. It lasted an hour. Padmé spent twice as long complaining that he’d been conveniently unavailable to speak with her and several other senators about the current situation on Rodia, and yet, he has enough time to meet with me about ship schematics? I don’t buy it.”

“No, I wouldn’t either. Nor do I imagine your fiancée is particularly inclined to ‘buy it’.”

“She’s not. Definitely not. The Chancellery Secretariat…” Anakin hesitates. “Have you been there?”

“Ever? Yes. Recently? No. Why?”

Heavily, Anakin sighs. “I told you before that I was sure that someone in the Senate was the Sith?”

Obi-Wan’s expression darkens. “I do recall something of the sort.”

“Well, whoever it is spends  _ a lot _ of time down there. I can feel it. In the Force, or…rather, I can’t feel the Force. It’s cold. And wrong. I don’t know how to describe it, other than to say it is suffocating. I don’t like it at all. So after my meeting ended, I…acquired the Chancellor’s private schedule.” He passes Obi-Wan the datapad, who raises a brow, watching him rather than it. “I haven’t looked at it yet, but I figured it might give us some insights, help to narrow things down. Obviously, the Chancellor spends the most time there, but who he sees more frequently could be just as telling. I’m not ruling anyone out, but ever since they arrived at the ball, my guess is it's either the Chancellor, the Vice Chancellor or Aide Moore. The three of them are close, I’ve noticed, and if it wasn’t one of those three, I imagine whoever spends the next greatest amount of time with them all would be. I know you don’t agree. Maybe you just don’t want to. But I’ve been doing some research, and any one of them is power hungry enough to make sense. Moore’s a low level telepath even, which could contribute. Amedda’s been gunning for more power since long before the Chancellor took his current position. And well, the Chancellor certainly hasn’t shown any signs of turning down more emergency powers.”

He sits back, stretching his arms in front of him. “I’m just so frustrated! I can’t get a really good read on any of them, definitely not enough of one to figure this out. Thus,” he waves a hand at the datapad. “the hard evidence route instead. When in doubt, slice.”

“We will analyze it of course. Thank you for bringing it to us.” Obi-Wan sets the datapad aside. “I will look at it later. I wonder, if you wouldn’t mind saying, what is it about this situation that makes you feel so inclined to help? To discover the Sith?”

A tremor is building. Anakin can feel it, shivering around his hands. The potential. The possibility.

“I wonder, Master Kenobi, did you tell the Council what I told you of your old Master?”

Obi-Wan stiffens. Whether in direct relation to the formal mode of address of the unanticipated topic change, Anakin cannot say. The Jedi takes a long, steadying breath, and his expression turns grim. “I…haven’t not as such. Not directly. I made…queries,” his rhythm is stilted, abrupt. “About the possibility of such things. I did not mention him.”

A flare, bright, un-Jedi like, stems from Obi-Wan. Anakin recognizes it instantly for what it is.

Longing.

“Qui-Gon and I have had some conversations on the matter of the Sith. I’ve meditated with him and found that the best way I can do what I want to in this world, helping people, that is, is by seeing to the removal of the Sith. I’m in a unique position to help with that. Unaffiliated with the Jedi, the soon-to-be husband of a rather significant Senator. It provides a certain…opportunity”

“I see. I-“ Cutting off with a sigh, Obi-Wan presses his palms together and rests his matching fingers against his lips in contemplation. “Anakin, there are things you don’t know. Things which have been…withheld from you by the Council. I’m of a mind to keep it that way, myself, but I’m not sure that that intention matches the will of the Force.”

Expanding, the tremor wraps around Kenobi. Anakin watches it as he might the shifting of a cloud; it’s as present and tangible as the clothes on his back, the indecision in the air.

“Do as you see fit.”

Kenobi blinks, almost as though he’s forgotten Anakin is there at all. “What do you know of philosophy? Has Qui-Gon taught you anything?”

“Anything scholarly you mean?”  _ Son of the Suns… _

“Yes, I suppose. Ideas about the Force. Concepts. The nature of the dark and the light.”

Anakin shifts, feeling uncomfortable. “Almost everything I learn, I learn from self-reflection. That is the way he’s decided to guide me. The light and the dark co-exist. There is one Force, a natural field that permeates all and is constantly attempting to achieve and maintain balance.” The dark Twin smiles at him from his reflection in the window behind Obi-Wan. “Why do you ask?

The tremor peaks, crests, slackens, and Obi-Wan’s posture mirrors it. “There is a prophecy of old. That speaks of One who would be born to see to the maintenance of that balance. These are…dark times.” Obi-Wan’s gaze is piercing, holding Anakin pinned in place. “Clouded,” he says, the single word carrying a hefty weight. “Uncertain.”

“And you believe me to be this ’One’.”

Obi-Wan’s lips thin. “The possibility has been…discussed.”

By way of reply, Anakin merely nods, which must bother Kenobi, because his forehead crinkles again and the Force ripples. “You’re not surprised.” He doesn’t ask it like a question.

“No, I’m not. Qui-Gon beat you to the punch, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. Yes. Well he always did believe you were the Jedi of the prophecy. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I do wonder though,” Anakin continues, standing. Sitting is too confining, too restrained. His knees crack as he goes. “Why is it that you chose to mention it just now?”

“It is your destiny to destroy the Sith.” The words fall from Obi-Wan’s lips as easily as if he were reciting lines from a poem. Perhaps it wasn’t all that dissimilar. “That you have found your own way to such a path says everything about  _ who _ you are, that is, if you did not discuss this with Master Qui-Gon prior to you…determination, if you will.”

“Not really.” Restless, Anakin walks to the window, spreading the blinds so that he can look out across the city. 500 Republic rises in the distance. “He must have felt as you do. That I was better off not knowing precisely. He first told me of this prophecy only a week or so ago.”

The silence that follows is thoughtful. The tremor has passed. Only ripples remain.

“And what do you believe, Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice is soft, almost caring. “You are right when you say you are unaffiliated, in a special position. What you do with this knowledge…it is yours alone. The Council cannot control you, no matter how much some may like to.”

From this distance, the building that houses the woman he loves seems little bigger than his smallest finger. She’s not there; even if he didn’t know it, he would be able to sense it. Closing his eyes, Anakin spreads himself in the Force, finds the warmth of her light glimmering at the Senate Rotunda, as anticipated.

“Well, I was found on Tatooine, wasn’t I? Son of the Suns. That’s got to count for something.”

Obi-Wan is stunned. He can feel it. Quickly, it’s followed up with a hearty laugh, though not so full bodied as he imagines it might be were the circumstance not so serious. “Yes, I suppose it must.”

“It’s why everyone in the Temple reacted so strongly to me, isn’t it? Qui-Gon’s only ever alluded to it, really. He said I was powerful and untrained and those two things hand in hand made ‘waves’.” When Anakin turns away from the window, he sees Obi-Wan watching him, though the look is unlike those he’d had before.

It’s melancholy, almost. Wistful.

“You’re a good person, Anakin,” he says rather suddenly, almost absently, like he’s lost his way. “I think I should liked to have trained you, if only for the opportunity to know you better. Perhaps, however, it is better this way. We are very different, you and I. Complimentary perhaps, in another life. But different. I do not think I should have done you justice.”

A shiver seems to come over Obi-Wan, physically and in the Force. With curiosity, Anakin notes it for later.

“For the best…yes…for the best…” Kenobi is looking through him now, not at him, and Anakin wonders if this is what he looks like in the midst of a waking vision, few and far between though they are. It only lasts another second, however, before Obi-Wan shakes himself out of the fog. “Yes, sorry, you were saying?”

Anakin doesn’t correct him. “I was hoping that, aside from passing along what information I’m able to gather, I might perhaps get some hands on experience with the lightsaber? I’m pretty sure the katas that Qui-Gon’s taught me will only take me so far.”

Eyes widening, Obi-Wan nods. “Absolutely. You and I can go to one of the training salles later. You said you had some rather pressing business? I don’t wish to keep you, especially not if you think it might alert the Sith Lord.” Kenobi pauses. “Oh, actually, before you go, that was something I meant to mention. In relation to this whole prophecy business. It is not something that goes unknown to the Sith, Anakin. You said that Padmé believes that your appointment here on Coruscant has some ulterior motive. It is my belief, which I suppose corresponds with your own intuition, that the Sith is well aware of just who and what you  _ may _ be. And, as the saying goes, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, hmm?”

The warning is not lost on Anakin. Obi-Wan’s grave expression precludes the possibility. “I had a feeling. I’m less concerned for myself, though. I-“ The memory of the dream sweeps over Anakin like grazing a healing wound. “I had a dream. Not a premonition, though I’ve been inclined towards them. This was different. A warning, still, but just a dream.”

He doesn’t need to continue. It is clear that Obi-Wan knows exactly what he means. “You’re worried for your family.”

Somehow, the acknowledgement of that fear feels shameful. Anakin ducks his head. It’s so easy to let that fear control him. He wants to let it take the controls. At least it seems to have priorities. It always has. “Yes. Padmé especially. I should never have gone with her to that ball.”

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Some things, Anakin, are meant to be. It is the will of the Force. Or you would never have discovered the power of the Sith. Have heart. There is  _ knowledge _ , not ignorance. And you can do much,” he lifts the datapad. “With knowledge. Now. You’d best be off. Tea and saber practice can save ‘til later. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Anakin nods. “Tomorrow. Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

“No,” Obi-Wan holds his gaze earnestly. “Thank you.”

Whatever it is Obi-Wan means, he  _ does _ mean it.

Sienar Technologies is an immense facility. It’s really Santhe/Sienar Technologies these days, Anakin knows, which must really irk Raith Sienar, considering how well known it is that the company is his baby. Anakin’s read all about the Santhe Corporation’s investment takeover, the rebranding process, all of it; it was hot news in the holomags he reads frequently several years back. It’s probably the single largest ship and other mass production large tech company in the galaxy, and certainly the most well-known. More than a few times, Anakin’s looked at a new ship and noticed the ingenuity of the lines, the sleekness of the build and noted it as Raith’s personal touch. The man is a designer first and foremost, and of all the unfortunate elements that come along with his new role on Coruscant  _ meeting _ Raith is not one that Anakin considers to number among them.

_ Working _ with the man will likely be a different story. The paperwork he received assured him that Raith has been made aware of the Chancellor’s desire for ‘personal touch’, but Anakin knows this sort of man – after all, he is one such himself. Even the thought of someone else working on Artoo gets Anakin anxious, and he didn’t even design the fiery little droid! He trusts his crew back on Naboo to handle things there without him. They were a team, they worked together. But to have something of his own design, something so person modified by what is essentially an independent contractor, well, Anakin’s not expecting the warmest of welcomes, not by far.

Which is why even the alterations that he has already sketched out with the aid of the Chancellor’s commentary and ideas, Anakin intends to go in deferentially.

As they come up on the front entrance of the neoteric building, Anakin takes a moment to consider what the design says about the man as much as his ships do. The characteristically straight, clean lines match the impersonal nature of Coruscant perfectly, though they carry none of the posh softness and lavish grandeur that the Senate District does. Of all the places he’s yet been on Coruscant, the Jedi Temple is the only one Anakin feels really carries something which matches his estimation of ‘culture’, one built on Tatooine and refined on Naboo. Culture is warm and inviting, even when the people aren’t. Rich with the colour and wear of history. Coruscant and everything on it, save the Temple, are too new in their stylings to meet with Anakin’s standards.

No, Sienar Technologies is a business, and presents itself as such. It has to. Raith’s wealth only comes from his frequent commissions, not from any long legacy. His best paying customers care little for exquisite design. No, their focus is function, ostensibly the reason Anakin has been called in, aside from the safety measures he’s also been asked to implement. Reasonably, Raith could handle those himself. But taking aside all the outward pomp, the reason none of it makes any true sense is because it’s all an excuse after all.

An excuse to get Anakin to Coruscant, stuck as a half blinded, floundering itinerant in the eddies of the Force. Of course, that doesn’t mean Anakin can’t try and have a little fun while he’s at it. As the door opens before them with a soft whoops of pneumatic air, Artoo whistles, twittering his opinion on the place. It’s a hard job for Anakin not to snort at the rude little thing, who isn’t impressed at all.

‘I know, buddy, I know. But you’ve gotta act cool. We don’t know how many people around here might have a rudimentary understanding of binary. You want to make life harder for us? We’re already going to get a rough welcome, I’m sure. Imagine if I shipped you off to just anybody to design and install your upgrades. Then how would you feel?”

With a loud raspberry, Artoo expresses his displeasure.

“Exactly. So be a little more self-aware, okay? You can rant at me on the way home. I promise.”

Though the little droid gives his assent, he does so with displeasure. Together, they wheel towards the front desk, a long, flat expanse that lacks the personal touch of décor, sleek silver with clean white and black plastisteel accents.

“Excuse me, I’m Anakin Skywalker. I’ve a meeting with Raith Sienar.”

The woman – human or near-human, just as everyone here has been, Anakin notes with interest and mild concern – nods pleasantly. “Just a moment.” She presses a button on the comm, pulls the mic nearer her mouth. “Mr. Sienar-“ A pause. “Mr. Sienar, a Mr. Skywalker for you sir. He’s marked in, yes. About the Lombda.” A few more requisite moments, and she looks back up. “To your left, sir. Floor Level B23.”

Curtly, Anakin gives a thin smile, thanks her and heads to the Turbolift, which is opened for him by a bored looking, grey uniformed guard. Inside, even Artoo keeps quiet as the floors speed past. B23 is a low basement level, though, considering Coruscant’s many layers, unlikely the lowest available to the massive tech conglomerate. When the doors hiss open, Anakin and Artoo are greeted by the sights and rather distinctive smells of a massive maintenance and construction hangar. Instantly, Anakin feels more at home. Probably ironic, considering that there’s hardly anything warm and cultured about engine oil.

Immediately, he spies Sienar. Anakin’s seen enough pictures to know the man on sight, but the gentleman beside him is one unknown to Anakin. Tall and thin with a straight back and sallow cheeks, the imperious man has his head tilted up, effectively looking down his nose at Sienar. Instantly, Anakin takes a disliking to him. Sienar, Anakin notes, doesn’t look particularly pleased either, which will ultimately come to mean one of two things; Sienar will be glad for the interruption, or sour all the same.

“Ah, and here comes my next appointment. Sorry Tarkin. We’ll have to pick this up later,” Sienar says as Anakin comes into hearing range, sounding anything but apologetic.

“Another time, then,” the man called Tarkin replies dryly. “Good day, Raith.”

“And you, Wilhuff.”

Much to Anakin’s surprise, as the sneering fellow passes, he deigns a glance at Anakin. More evaluative than probing, it lasts only so long as it takes for him to walk by.

“Wilhuff Tarkin,” Sienar says as opposed to introducing himself. “Self-important military man and all around bureaucrat. And a friend, if you can call bureaucrats friends.”

“Ah,” Anakin makes a face to match Sienar’s own. “I see. Anakin Skywalker. Not a bureaucrat,” he says, sticking out his hand. “And also not here to step on your toes. Figured I’d lead with that.”

Sienar’s smile isn’t exactly what Anakin would term pleasant, but it’s a sight more genuinely friendly than any he’s seen since arriving aside from Obi-Wan and Padmé that is. If he had to put a word to it, Anakin thinks he’d pick shrewd. “I think you and I are going to do just fine, Skywalker. Just fine. Now, let's see what you’ve got there.”

As far as things go, Anakin supposes, it could be worse. 


	20. Vacillation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a son of a bitch so I hope you all appreciate it.  
> Anakin was not cooperating with me, then I got sucked into a black hole of research and discovered approximately nothing useful for /this/ chapter and got distracted. 
> 
> Also, I'm a chapter ahead now, because I wrote two. 
> 
> Unbeta'd ish. 
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for the kind comments. I thrive on them.

Life goes on. It’s a different sort of normal that Anakin finds himself living with than Naboo or Tatooine. For the first time in the two years of their relationship, Anakin and Padmé are workably living together, and the desire to just be married already has grown exponentially on both their parts. They eat dinner together, trade gossip and insider information over evening caf, and teach Anakin to dance among…other highly enjoyable pastimes. If it weren’t for the looming spectre of the war and the Sith hanging over them, it would almost be blissful. 

The best part aside from his time with Padmé is the time he spends in training at the Temple. Although Kenobi does share the information gleaned from Anakin’s little detour, most of their time is spent focusing on things other than politics. True to his word, Obi-Wan takes Anakin to the dueling salles, working him over in combat relentlessly, gruelingly, just as Anakin asks him to, time and time again. Even when Kenobi’s had enough, even when Kenobi tells him that he’s had enough – and there is a difference – they keep at it. The first couple times are a disaster, Anakin finding himself disarmed easily. He learns about the forms, something Qui-Gon never bothered with, discovers that he’s been taught both defensive and offensive variants of one particular form by the ghostly master, form V, which Obi-Wan says seems to suit him particularly well. There’s no point in experimenting. Anakin can feel the impending moment, drawing nearer and ever more real. But the kata drills that Qui-Gon’s had him doing for so long now pay off, and soon he gets used to the dance that is dueling an opponent. 

Eventually, unfortunately, Obi-Wan is sent away to the front again, but not before leaving Anakin with a stand-in saber master in the form of the Jedi’s Battlemaster, Cin Drallig, a gruff human, who is even more ferociously stoic than Kenobi. Anakin relishes the challenge, soaks in the instruction, practices constantly. It’s less of a desire than a persistent need that thrums beneath his skin. But as much as he wishes that he could spend all his time practicing with the saber, other things take precedence.

The Chancellor meets with him fairly frequently, much to Padmé’s dismay. Over the course of two months, there are only maybe three of them. It’s not exactly like Anakin enjoys the meetings. At first, they’re tame enough by way of conversation, focused mostly on the finalization and re-finalization of the designs as things change and or are scrapped for more efficient or aesthetically pleasing choices. It’s…frustrating, but Anakin’s learned to put on a good face, and unlike some customers he’s heard yelling at Raith, who gives just as good as he gets in tight smiles and underhanded commentary, the Chancellor is open to almost every option that Anakin puts forward, graciously accepting when one of his ideas or desires won’t pan out. 

But lately, their meetings lengthen, grow more frequent; Anakin lets them. There really isn’t any other choice. The Chancellor likes to talk – likes to hear himself talk at least – and where most of their meetings last an hour, sometimes even more, the actual discussions about the shuttle tend to wrap up in fifteen, twenty minutes standard. And he doesn’t prod too much politically. Early on, there are some probing queries, but Anakin’s own relative ignorance makes rebuffing them fairly easy. 

He’s never forgotten though, the almost belittling smile when the Chancellor first commented on his lack of finesse in the political world. I would have thought, with a fiancée like yours, you might have picked something up.

That had burned. Still does, even though Anakin accepts it as a necessity. Privately, Padmé’s congratulated him on all he has managed to pick up, even though they still have differing opinions on the functionality of the Republic even in its heyday, though more and more they agree on the current state of things. 

No, most of the conversations with the Chancellor skew personal, even though they mostly consist of the niceties, How is the Senator? How are you? To which, of course, Anakin’s standard answer is ‘fine, thank you’, a perfectly acceptable answer to inquiries about how he’s doing. Really, the questions are blasé, and Palpatine’s follow ups even more so. The man talks a lot and manages, most of the time, to say mostly nothing. It’s actually rather impressive. 

So despite the unnerving feel of the place, Anakin doesn’t really mind the meetings too much. They allow him an insight, at the least, access to the Chancellors inner circle.. A few names had sprung to the fore after he dropped the datapad with Obi-Wan. Individuals in Palpatine’s retinue, another Aide, Sate Pestage and Janus Greejatus foremost among them. After looking into them both, Anakin disregards Greejatus. Pestage is smart, though, wickedly smart, Anakin’s sure. But he hasn’t had the chance to be in the presence of either one for any great length of time and certainly not clandestinely. Mas Amedda is busy too, frequently attending to things around the Senate. Really, it’s Sly Moore who bothers Anakin the most. She’s off putting even at the best of times. He’s not sure what it is, but Anakin doesn’t like it, and it gets him no closer to figuring out the identity of the Sith Lord. 

Work on the Chancellor’s personal shuttle is ongoing. Since it is only the second Lambda class ship ever to be built – the first being the prototype for the base model, Sienar and Anakin are still working out the kinks. Ironically, Anakin discovers that Raith Sienar keeps an apartment in 500 Republica as well, which makes things just slightly awkward, as the man’s seemingly inserted himself as Anakin’s patron in his own right, though Anakin doubts its meant so much for him as for Sienar himself. The man proves to be a shrewd and calculating mind; though he pushes no interest in politics, he’s definitely interested in mining for ideas and information. A businessman like Raith Sienar knows the writing is on the wall – he may not be aware of the Sith threat, nor even know enough to know what a Sith is, but Anakin thinks that the whole planet must be able to feel the change that’s in the air. There’s too much upheaval. Too many possibilities. Too much potential to gain while others lose. But for as disgustingly business minded as Sienar is, Anakin can’t help but admire the man’s technical genius. Begrudgingly, it’s clear that Sienar admires the same in Anakin. They don’t get along, per say, but they round one another warily. 

Just another type of dancing, Ani, Padmé tells him. You’re getting better at this high society stuff.

Well, just because he’s getting better at it doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. 

In fact, he hates it. 

He’s been ogled by her colleagues at a number of different functions; ever since the Senatorial Ball, he and Padmé decided that the damage was already done, and he’s hardly interested in letting some other fool hold her arm during official functions. There are a few people in Padmé’s immediate circle that Anakin doesn’t mind, though he’d hardly call them friends so much as acquaintances. They don’t come to the apartment to chat and play sabacc, no that’s pretense. They come to talk political strategy. Anakin listens, politely, picks up as much as he can, especially on Dooku’s movements, but stays relatively silent, generally tinkering with something at the counter while Padmé holds court like she’s still the Queen of Naboo. 

It is one such evening, except that instead of tinkering, Anakin has the plans for the Chancellor’s shuttle rolled out on the dining table while Padmé and her cadre of politicians fill the sitting area. There’s Bail Organa, whom he’s come to see as perhaps one of Padmé’s closest real friends, the Viceroy and Senator for Alderaan, Mon Mothma, the Senator of Chandrila, Garm Bel Iblis, who upon learning of their engagement had actually broken character to give Anakin a might slap on the back. There’s also frequently a rotation of other senators, including Chi Eekway Papanoida, the Pantoran senator for Wroona, Dwell Bronk, Senator from Kedorzha, Sweitt Concorkill, the Vurk Senator from Sembla, Tundra Owmeia, the Quarren senator from Mon Calamari, and the new Senator from Kuat, Giddean Danu, who is quite a lot nicer than his predecessor. Anakin’s rather glad that he broke into the Kuat delegation’s offices before this fellow took office. 

Only at Padmé’s insistence does he stay in residents during their conversations; there were a few Senators, ones who knew her less well, who had grumbled the first time he was present at the residence at all during one of their private and unofficial meetings, but Padmé’s word holds weight, and her impassioned defense of him is enough that the no longer bat an eye at his presence. 

He’s reworking one of the Chancellor’s personally requested alterations for the cabin when he hears the name dropped. 

Dooku. 

Anakin scowls at the reminder. Progress is dead end on all fronts, including that one. 

Qui-Gon had pushed him to look into Dooku, but that’s generally easier said than done. The man is a veritable ghost, which is why Anakin’s attention catches when he hears the name drop. 

“ -Dooku’s apparently been spotted in movement. Not sure where yet, but the concern arises that –“

And isn’t that just it? Dooku is always moving, and even if he did try to discern the meaning of the Separatist leader’s movements in correlation to how things are moving on the Republic side of things, the problem remains that everything is suspect. Frustrated, Anakin pushes back from the table, letting the blueprints roll back to their natural curl and discretely leaves the common area. Conversation continues uninterrupted, though Padmé glances at him briefly, the corners of her mouth turning down. 

In the privacy of their personal chambers, Anakin flops down onto the bed, resting an arm over his eyes. Only just twenty-two and he feels old already, old and tired and useless. 

“Ani?” He doesn’t bother to look up at the sound of her voice. “Is everything alright?” 

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you later. Go finish your meeting, I’m going to try and meditate.” He can feel her hesitation. 

“Alright.” 

In the months since he began living full time on Coruscant, Anakin has found that his hard won balance is ever more untenable. Ever since the blockade, Naboo had felt very little immediate fallout from the galaxy’s larger troubles, but Coruscant is the heart of the Republic’s conflict, and he finds that he understands Padmé better than ever. It’s difficult to keep hope, much less balance, when almost every piece of news they garner is either a loss or a battle so hard won it may well have not been called a victory at all. Depressing as events are, they tend to build, to feed on one another. On Naboo it was a simple matter to meditate by comparison to the struggle that each attempt constitutes on Coruscant. 

But Anakin tries anyway, letting his eyes fall shut.

“You’re tense.” 

Qui-Gon’s presence fills the chamber. 

“Relax. Start physically and then move mentally. Tell me, what is on your mind.” 

With a twist, Anakin cracks his back loudly. “Dooku is a dead end and every attempt I’ve made to discover the Sith in the Senate is just as fruitless as the next. I don’t appreciate being told I have a grand destiny to destroy the Sith only to be impotent in finding him.” 

“You think too hard,” Qui-Gon admonishes. “The reason Jedi are trained as children is because limits are a learned practice. While we teach limits in some things, possibility is not one of them. Let go your mind. Forget the logical pathways you have traversed in your attempts. Feel, Anakin. That was my first lesson to you, and perhaps the most important.” 

“Feeling here is impossible. It’s too clouded. Even the Council says so.” 

“Yes, but you are not the Council, Anakin. Impossible is a limit. As a child, was there anything you imagined was impossible?” 

Anakin thinks back, remembers himself as he once was. Shakes his head. “No, teacher.” 

“You are the One. Forget the Council. Forget the Storm and the Clouds and the Veil. Visualize what is necessary to complete your task, and then accomplish it. Learn to do this, and nothing will stand in your way.” 

“I can’t, not here. Everything is too overpowering.” 

“Your focus determines-“

“-my reality, yes I know.” Anakin finishes the tried and true phrase. “I have focused. I have focused on finding the Sith, on learning to use my lightsaber, on pretending to be a simpleminded mechanic and doting fiancée so that the Sith doesn’t suspect me. I can’t do all these things well at once, and yet I have to do them, or I’ll fail.” 

“You will only fail if you believe you will fail.” 

Anakin’s eyes flutter open. 

Qui-Gon is gone. 

It’s late before Padmé comes to bed. He’s already finished his evening ablutions, has simply closed his eyes and lain in wait for her, fighting off the headache that’s blossomed in the meantime when he feels the dip of the bed, the gentle path of her hand across his upper arm.

“What’s bothering you?” It’s always to her credit that she asks, though she always tells him that it's to his credit that he answers. 

“I’m overwhelmed.” Admitting it already lessens the burden. “Everything here is depressing and I hate it just about as much as I thought I would, which is a lot. And it doesn’t help that you’re frustrated too. There’s hardly a person on the planet that isn’t frustrated or frightened or nervous or-or-or angry, and I think I’m caught in some kind of feedback loop.” He drops his arm away. She’s perched on the mattress beside him, looking tired, but lovely as ever in the light pollution that streams in through the window. Without words, she continues to stroke his arm. The ease of gentle, unimpassioned contact is soothing. “I heard someone mention Dooku.” 

Padmé nods. He’s clued her in a little on his Sith searching activities, and her insights are invaluable, despite the lack of any actual progress. “Yes. There’s a rumour he’s on the move again. As much good as that does us, since we’re not sure from where or to where.” Suddenly, she shifts, laying down beside him, hand sliding to the metal of his prosthesis. He still doesn’t understand why she lavishes such attention there. He’s not sure he ever will. 

“Anakin, let’s get married.” 

Tone surprisingly desperate, Anakin’s own concerns fade. Even the thought of doing her any greater unhappiness is unbearable. The tiniest frown lines etch the corners of her mouth. “Hmm,” he begins, thinking of the way her laugh will sound at the tease. “I think you’ve already asked me that question once before, and I was pretty sure I answered it then.”

It’s chime is dull, but Padmé does still laugh for him, just as expected. “Anakin, you know what I mean. I’m tired of putting it off, and I’m not interested in planning. Let’s just take a vacation, pick up your family on the way home to Naboo and have a ceremony. Some sort of breather. It’s clear we both need it. I’m not any good to the Senate overworked and you’re no good to yourself or anyone else utterly drained. Let’s go home, let’s have something, just one thing for ourselves?” 

Something off. Something’s different. 

Or maybe it’s just his headache. 

“Alright, Angel. I think it’s a good idea. We need a break. You’re right. Mmm. Have you all to myself for a while,” he slides his arms around her, slowly, sensuously. “Take a dip in the lake mayb-“

“Anakin, you don’t even know how to swim!” She protests, but he can see the smile now, renewed with a vigor. 

“I guess you’ll just have to teach me then.” Dipping his head, he presses a kiss to her fluttering pulse and she throws her head back in abandon, giggling. 

“Ani!” Her hands grip a little more tightly. “Oh, I needed that. Laughter. When was the last time we laughed, Anakin? When was the last time there was real joy in this place?” 

He doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t know. 

“I want us to be happy, Anakin. I want us to thrive, not just…exist.” She sits up then, eyes wild with fervor. Each of her finger tips is a precise point of pressure against flesh and metal alike. “I want that for us. Don’t you? Don’t you want that too?” 

“Of course I do, Padmé!” Wresting himself from her grip, he sits too, grasps her by the shoulders gentle. “What is it, my Love? What’s wrong? How can I make it better?” 

Tears bead her lovely eyes, glimmering like jewels, bright against the shadow that’s overcome her, the pallor of her complexion. In the instant that Anakin takes her in, he knows that the way she looks right now will forever be seared into his memory, the ghost of desperate passion. “Hold me, Ani, just hold me. Please.” She surges into his arms almost before he can open them to her, and tousles his metal hand in her hair, saving his flesh one for the delicate skin of her back. Shuddering in his arms, she sobs against him. 

“I’m sorry, my love.” He doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what he’s even apologizing for, except that she’s obviously upset about something and he’s missed it until now, can’t help but wonder if it was obvious, if he’s just been so absorbed in himself, his own problems that he couldn’t see how much she has been suffering. Which certainly doesn’t make him feel any better. “I’m sorry. I love you, Padmé. I love you so much. So, so much. We’ll go. We’ll go tomorrow. First thing. We can comm in, reschedule all our meetings. Everything will be alright,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her soft curls. “Everything will be alright.” 

He only wishes he believes it.

They do exactly all of what they discussed the previous evening the next day, each comming in their impending absences, as well as Padmé’s family, so that they can have a little more time to prepare before leaving immediately for Tatooine, much to Typho’s dismay. Anakin does the navigation himself, mostly to help take his mind off things before arriving under his mother’s sharp eye; she’ll know that something is awry anyways, but he doesn’t want to outright frighten her with it. 

It takes a day, after their arrival, for Cliegg to get things set up with Beru’s family in Anchorhead to watch the farm. Much to their luck, they’d already arranged for such circumstances since the wedding announcement, and it’s not long before they’re all in trans planetary space. Beru has never been off planet before, and Owen not since he was too young to remember, so it’s fun for Anakin to watch them staring out the transperasteel windows. Even more hilarious is Threepio, who is also with them, lamenting his condition for the wedding, so Anakin cleans him up beforehand, best as he can.

Shmi sits quietly with Padmé for a time, and then with Anakin when Typho heads to bed. Though she doesn’t say anything, he knows that Padmé must have, because when she sits down beside him, the first thing she does is reach out her hand to stroke his hair. 

“My son, a husband.” 

“Not quite yet.” 

“No, not quite yet.” There’s a tender expression in her features. “But soon.” 

They skip landing in Theed and arrive instead at the nearest spaceport to the Naberrie’s Lake Country villa. Varykino is grand in a way that none of the Lars family, much less Shmi, have seen before, but Padmé’s family has dressed simply for the occasion and Anakin looks to his soon to be wife gratefully. The only other person present is the elderly Pontifex who will officiate. Even though it’s been almost half a year since Padmé proposed, anxiety bubbles inside Anakin. They’re separated at the dock; Anakin spends so much time watching her be led off by her mother and her nieces that he almost misses Owen scrambling to land behind him while Beru snickers. 

“Come, Ani,” his mother says, tugging him away to where Sola awaits them. 

“I’ll take care of your family, Anakin,” Ruwee says, patting him gently on the arm. “Go with your mother and Sola. We’ll handle everything.” 

Anakin doesn’t need telling twice, his mother clasping one arm, Sola holding the other. 

“This is a wonderful surprise, Anakin!” Padmé’s sister’s joy echoes in the Force. “We haven’t seen either of you in so long. And so lovely that your family can be here too! The ceremony will be this evening, on the overlook, just like you and Padmé talked about.” 

She takes them through the halls, chatting amicably with Shmi, but Anakin doesn’t hear much of it. He’s listening in a different way instead, to the persistent flame of Padmé’s growing ease and happiness, radiant in the Force even from across the house. As nervous as he is, he’s more sure about this than anything. 

He can feel again. Properly. 

And all he feels in this house is love. 

Sola goes to tend her sister, leaving Anakin and his mother alone to get ready. He’s packed some of his nicer things, mostly purchased for Senate events, but they look and feel stuff, everything that Naboo is not. 

“Peace, Ani,” Shmi smooths her hands over his shoulders. “At a wedding, you must be yourself. I was worried too when I married Cliegg. I’d never been married. I’d never seen a wedding. I didn’t have anything truly fine. But when I thought about it, I realized that all I needed was myself. As long as you have yourself, you are ready.” 

It doesn’t solve his problem, not really, but it does make him feel better. 

“You pick. If all I need is myself, then it doesn’t matter.” 

“There you are.” Shmi’s hands come to bracket his face. “That is my son. I knew you were in there somewhere.”

In the end, he wears a black capelet in the same style as a few others that he’s acquired over a deep, warm brown shirt that’s far less formal than some of the others he has. Black, his mother insists, is his colour, so of course the pants match. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks. Why she bothers, Anakin doesn’t know. It’s obvious that he is. Must be some sort of mother thing, a requirement of her job. “She loves you, Ani.”

“I know, Mom. I love her too.” 

They walk out to the hall together, and he leans down to pull her into a hug. No words pass between them, but he kisses her cheek, and then she leaves him there, heading to the balcony by herself. Through one of the intricately carved archways, Padmé appears. 

She’s stunning. It’s like his heart’s stopped, she’s so beautiful. He can’t breathe, he loves her so much, and suddenly he’s crying. Draped in white lace, she peers up at him from under her veil, capturing him in her gaze so magnetically that even though he’s suddenly inclined to be shy, he can’t look away. 

“You’re too beautiful for words,” he manages to get out. 

“I’ve never loved you more.” 

They take hands; where their fingers clasp, Anakin can feel their pulse beat in time. 

“There’s an old story,” Padmé whispers. “An ancient story here on Naboo, of two lovers. Veré and Set. They pledged eternal love to one another. To stand by one another’s sides. Over and over again, in life, in death, and in life again. You are my one and only, Ani. You’re my forever.” 

“We don’t have anything like that on Tatooine,” Anakin says, focusing on the way her hand feels beneath his. “Life is fleeting. And harsh. So love is cherished. Cherished but short. So I’m glad that I'm not on Tatooine anymore. Because I want our love to be eternal.” 

She gives him a watery smile. “Me too.” 

Together, hands still joined, they walk out to the balcony where their families wait, ready to take hold of forever, the sunset spilling rose-light and gilt gold over the water, blinding candle flame gems strewn into the distant horizon. 


	21. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Guess what! I'm still a chapter ahead, which means that I actually know what happens next at the time of posting! This is a big one, folks!
> 
> Happy belated and assorted religious holidays to those who celebrate. I hope you are all well. 
> 
> Thank you for the continued kind attention and commentary. I love every kudo, every bookmark and every comment. Each and every one of you has helped me to continue writing this.
> 
> Also, there's something...alluded to. In this chapter and the last chapter. Wonder if anyone can guess what's up.

Their respite is brief but wonderful. At the newly wedded couple’s insistence, both families remain at Varykino with them for the predetermined week that constitutes their honeymoon. It is nothing but pleasant to have everyone they love in one place. Padmé has the opportunity to get to know her step-sister-in-law quite well, and Anakin, when not with his wife or his mother, spends the majority of his time with his new nieces, who have apparently decided that he is the best thing in the world, next to only Artoo, whom they still dote on.

He’s never really spent time around children, save when he was one himself, but Ryoo and Pooja never cease to cause his heart to abound with tender warmth. On the last night of their week of freedom, the girls insist that he put them to bed, which he does without complaint. On his way to follow the still giggling children to their shared quarters, Darred smirks with a quick shake of his head.

“What?”

“You,” his brother-in-law says. “You’re going to be a wonderful father someday. You’re a natural. They’ve got you completely wrapped around their little fingers.”

“So you say!” he calls over his shoulder, even as he hastens to catch up with the little girls calling out his name through the corridor.

“So I know!”

Even after they’ve slipped into the bliss of untainted sleep, Anakin stays and watches his nieces. The delicate rise and fall of their thin chests, the angelic aura that overcomes their exuberance in sleep. Anakin cannot help but recall the waking vision, the two children, one with hair just as dark as Ryoo’s, as all the women in Padmé’s family, as dark as his own mother's, and the other, the towheaded one. They seem far less figments and far more real now than ever, as though, should Pooja roll over in her sleep, she might cease to be his niece, and instead, the very image of his own as yet unrealized child.

Conflict arises within him as the thought, the memory of the vision preceding the memory of that same evening’s nightmarish warning.

His would-be children call to his heart, but he closes it away. Darred is right. He would love to be a father, but the prospect now seems too perilous.

Someday. Maybe. When all is said and done.

Then, there will be children.

He can feel it.

At breakfast the next morning, Cliegg clears his throat.

“Anakin, Padmé, we have a little bit of an announcement.” Looking around, it’s clear that none of Padmé’s family is surprised by this, save the girls, who aren’t really listening anyways. Anakin waits, breath bated. “After Owen and Beru here finally tie the knot, we’re selling the farm. And returning here.” Cliegg looks at him straight on. “Boy, I know you asked your mother about this months ago, when she came to visit. Made the offer, tried convincing her. Well. We four’ve all talked about it, and then we did some talking with the Naberrie’s here, and well, it’s a good life. A better life, and there’s opportunities for us here. And family.”

“It’s a good place to start a family, too.” Beru adds, gripping Owen’s hand tightly. “Better by far than Tatooine.”

“That’s wonderful!” Padmé jumps to her feet, rushes to pull Shmi – who has remained silent – into her arms. Anakin’s mother accepts the hug gracefully.

Anakin notices Jobal and Ruwee watching him closely. Beneath the table, Sola, beside him, gives his arm a reassuring pat. It’s all he can do not to cry, which is ridiculous, really, because his mom – his family – is going to be safe on Padmé’s home planet so there’s really no need to cry; crying’s for unhappiness. It always has been. But ultimately, that’s just what he does. As Padmé moves from his mother down the line, Owen, Beru, and Cliegg all in order, he turns away from his in-laws and levels his gaze with his mother, who is watching him expectantly. There are tears brimming in her eyes too, though they do not spill over, not like his.

No. Shmi Skywalker is strong. Unshakable. She always has been.

A paragon of all the things Anakin _should_ be. All the things he _wants_ to be.

Simultaneously, they stand. Oblivious, Padmé chatters to the rest, but Anakin doesn’t hear what she says.

Before his mother, he drops to his knees. She goes with him, pulls him to her chest, as she had when he was a little child, and together they finally weep. It’s immense, this new reality. In all his wildest fantasies, Anakin has never dared to dream of this. Though his mother has been free from slavery for many years, now, they will both leave Tatooine behind forever. Now they will both be truly free. When they finally part, the rest of their family has moved discretely to the patio, though he catches Padmé watching for him through the glass of the door.

He loves each and every one of them more than he knows how to say.

Darred offers to take up the job of making sure that preparations for them are made while the Lars clan returns to Tatooine to handle the sale of the farm and Beru and Owen’s wedding, for which Padmé at the least cannot be present. Anakin argues to stay, but they insist that this ceremony is mostly for Beru’s father, who has decreed that however unpleasant Tatooine is, it will remain his home and he has no desire to leave it. There will be time for another celebration, and Anakin has work to return to, even though he wishes that he doesn’t.

Such wishes have little in the way of power against the unfortunate necessity of reality. And so, Anakin bids his family goodbye once more, but he leaves with his wife beside him, and the promise of a better future to soothe the ache.

Coruscant has not been patient with their absence. Immediately upon return, Padmé is summoned off to a variety of meetings to catch her up on what’s been missed while she’s been away, and Anakin heads immediately for the shipyard dock, the entryway by which he accesses the maintenance hangar ever since his first day on site at Sienar Technologies.

He’s greeted by one of the aides he was assigned; human, just like the majority of Sienar Tech’s employees (which Anakin thinks is a poor way of conducting business. Smarter non-humans had been designing ships long before Raith Sienar was a twinkle in his father’s eye), Innellih Gabeld is at least competent. The datapad before him bears all manner of information. New updates on the project, issues that they’ve stalled on because they required his attention before any progress can be made, new ideas, suggestions and alterations to look over and approve.

And more than one memo from the Office of the Chancellery. He’s half listening to Gabeld’s run down of the most immediate details requiring his attention when Raith spots him, smiles that same wide, sly grin, and walks right up to slap him hard on the back.

“A married man now, Skywalker! Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Raith. But,” he holds up the datapad. “Work waits on no man, not even a newlywed, eh?”

“No indeed. No indeed.”

And that, thankfully, is that. Anakin is left with Gabeld, who summarily returns to filling him in.

It’s going to be a very long day.

He’s hanging suspended from a construction harness, fiddling with the wiring in one of the center fin’s panels, when he hears his name hollered vaguely from down below over the sparking of sonic welders and metallic clashes. He lets go of the suspension clip and cruises down the cable, landing on the main hull, where he crouches down to see Gabeld.

“What is it?” he calls down.

“You’ve been commed, sir!” Gabeld has her hands cupped around her mouth in effort to make herself heard. “Summoned to the Chancellery Secretariat.”

“When?”

“Immediately, sir!”

He makes an agreeable hand gesture, rather than attempting to yell back again and heads around to the front cockpit where the ship angles closer to the ground and hops off. Looking down at himself, Anakin knows he’s in no real appropriate condition to see the Chancellor, but a quick wash will have to suffice. Anakin strips out of the jumpsuit too; his day clothes may not be to the Senate standards, but they are a fair sight better than the oil stained comfort of his work clothes. In a short while, he’s left Sienar Tech and is in his speeder, heading towards the Senate. Artoo and Gabeld will see to progress in his stead.

By now, the guards don’t stop him upon entering the Senate Rotunda. Neither to the Chancellor’s personal guards even bother to shift when he passes by. If he didn’t know any better, Anakin would suspect that they’re not even living. Though the Force is clouded here, it’s not quite so clouded as to dull his senses that completely, thankfully.

Sly Moore’s expression sours when he arrives. It’s funny. Perhaps the only thing he thinks he would ever agree with the Umbaran on is that they will never like one another. She sneers at him. He wonders if she only has the two expressions. Haughty superiority and disinterested blasé.

“The Chancellor will see you.”

He’s not sure he’s ever heard her say any other phrase than that. If it weren’t for the sneer, he might have secretly thought her to be some kind of droid. Though he’s never met another Umbaran before, he’s sure that she’s definitely the exception rather than the rule.

“Thank you, Aide Moore,” Anakin replies as evenly as he’s capable of.

The same blinding light greets him upon entry, but Anakin’s arrived often enough that it doesn’t throw him off like it used to.

“Ah! Anakin!” The chancellor stands from behind his desk, opening his arms in a gregarious gesture. “Welcome back! How was your, ah, getaway?”

“Lovely thank you, Chancellor.”

“Congratulations on your nuptials. I’m sure the bride was stunning as ever.”

“Even more so, I assure you, sir.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Placidly, the Chancellor continues to simply smile.

“You asked to see me, Chancellor?” he prods, gently. “I was told it was of some urgency? If it has to do with the ship, I’ve only just arrived back this morning, so not much extra progress has b-“

“No, nothing to do with the ship.” The Chancellor beckons him forward. “Come, come, Anakin my boy. Sit with me.”

Bewildered, Anakin heads towards the conference table where the Chancellor invites him to take a chair. The view that overlooks the Senate District is breathtaking, though not beautiful or captivating. Impressive is a better word. Below, small as bugs, speeders zip by.

“A wedding on Naboo is a significant thing, my boy. Though I am Chancellor,” Palpatine continues, voice affecting a great weight as he alludes to his station, “I am still of the Naboo, first and foremost. I should have liked your dear wife, the Senator, to be here as well, but she was otherwise detained. No, I have asked you here to impart my whole hearted felicitations upon the happy occasion of your marriage. There, on the table for you.”

A slim folder rests innocuously on the imported wood table top.

“For you and your wife. Tickets to the Mon Calamari Ballet, at the Galaxies Opera. As the personal guests in my box.”

Unintentionally, Anakin’s eyes widen at the generous gift. “I – thank you. I don’t know what else to say. That’s very…generous.”

Palpatine waves a hand. “The least I can do. You know, I have known your wife for a very long time. Since she was little more than a girl in the Student Legislative Programme. I watched her career blossom, saw her elected to the Queenship. They loved her. Did she ever tell you that they tried to amend the constitution to keep her in office? That is true devotion.”

A prickle diverts Anakin, goosebumps on his flesh arm.

“I did know that, Sir.” _Carefully,_ something in him whispers. “She is the best at what she does. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Though we do not always see eye to eye, I have great respect for Senator Amidala. Affection even. She is the perfect example of all that Naboo has to offer.”

The itch under his skin grows. Absently, he scratches it, despite the fact that its origin is far from physical.

“Naturally, I did some research after meeting you. Only the best for Naboo’s most beloved Queen. Which is what led me to my decision, of course, to bring you here to work on the Shuttle.”

“I-I see.”

“Yes. Of course, I learned some other rather interesting things too. Not the least of which is your incredible proclivity for racing. I knew you were the one then. You see,” the Chancellor fixes his gaze on Anakin now, magnetically. “I also have a great love of racing. Of the speeder variety. I had hoped that, aside from receiving only the best quality of work on my new shuttle, I might find in you a kindred spirit.”

Anakin’s confusion distracts him from the growing shiver. “Pardon, sir?”

“Oh, everything here is politics, but you are not. And that is quite refreshing. I spend all my time as it is dealing with the politics of things. But racing and speeders are something which I have not had the luxury to speak about with anyone in, oh… _such_ a long time. Perhaps, when the galaxy is set to rights, we might entertain more than simple conversation. I am a patron of the arts. Speeders and racing is, in its own right, an art. Would you not agree?”

“Forgive me, Chancellor, I’m-I’m just a mechanic. In plain basic, what exactly is it that you’re suggesting?”

Genially, the Chancellor beams at him. “Perhaps you might like to race professionally?”

Dumbfounded, it takes all that Anakin has in him not to simply stare, though he does blink quite a bit and blunder his way to a response, which is more or less an ‘I’ll think about it’, and then, suddenly, Palpatine is graciously thanking him in that overly sincere way of his, for taking the time out of his busy day to come chat, and Anakin’s taking the tickets, folding them away in his pocket, and wishing the Chancellor a good day. Before he can make sense of anything, he’s already halfway back to Sienar’s hangars.

“Did you have a good day, Ani, my Love?” Padmé asks him as she sets the table. It’s a good thing she does, because Anakin blinks and realizes that the stove is too hot, pulling their dinner off the heating coil before it overcooks.

“Hmm? Sorry, focused on dinner.”

“I asked if you had a good day.”

“Oh well…I guess.”

Astute as ever, Padmé pauses, plates in hand. “Is something wrong?”

Truthfully, Anakin can’t say. “I don’t know. No, I guess.” He shrugs, choosing instead to focus on transferring the vegetables to a more appropriate dish. “I went to work. Got caught up. Actually _did_ some work, but then the Chancellor summoned me, so-“

“The Chancellor summoned you?” There’s an edge to her tone.

“Yeah, it was weird. Apparently, he wanted you there too.” He looks up at her then, as he carries their steaming meal to the table.

She nods. “Yes, I did receive the summons, but I was attending one of my committee meetings and was unreachable. What did he want?”

“To, uh, congratulate us, I guess. Oh.” He digs into his pocket, pulling out the slim folder. “His wedding present to us.”

“This…Anakin this is an invitation to the Mon Calamari Ballet. A private box. Even I’m not-“ Padmé shakes her head. “What else did he say?”

“He talked about you, a lot, I guess. How,” Anakin rubs at his forehead as he sits. “Proud? I guess, he is of you? Made a big deal about how he may be the Chancellor for the Republic, but he’s ‘of the Naboo first’, or something like that.”

Padmé seems speechless, so Anakin dishes out their food while he waits for her to form something coherent.

“This is a generous gift.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Brow furrowed, Padmé sets the little folder down on the chair at the end of the table, out of sight. “What else did he talk about.”

A small whispering voice hisses inside him not to tell her. That she’s perturbed enough as it is. But it's even more silly to keep it from her. It’s a little strange, sure, but not harmful. “Well, he suggested that he might like to sponsor me in professional speeder racing, which was just about the _last_ thing I ever expected to hear from the Chancellor of the Republic. Said that after we met he did some looking into me. Decided that I was the-“

All breath leaves Anakin. The fork falls from his grip with a clatter, but it sounds muted, muffled, indistinct. Padmé is calling his name, but it all seems so far away, the kitchen, the apartment, Padmé. Everything fogs over, even the pungent scent of spices in their dinner.

He’s back at the conference table in the Chancellor’s office suite. The blinding white light obscures all detail, backlighting the Chancellor, so that his features are shadowed and indeterminable. Only the movement of his lips is visible to Anakin. Slow, dreamlike, the moment replays over and over again.

_ I knew you were the one then. _

_ I knew you were the one then. _

_ The one. _

_ The one. _

_ The one. _

__

The One. 


	22. Adjudicature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this chapter originally began very very differently with a dream sequence because I was hoping to fake you all out. But it just didn't work with what was needed, so I scrapped two full pages and rewrote.
> 
> Some light inspiration from Stover, and a favourite line of Swiftsnowmane's
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you for reading. 
> 
> (Description for End Note here because everything wouldn't fit in the end note and I had to delete a bunch of grammatically correct commas to get it all in there already)  
> While I was in the process of writing this chapter, I was in the middle of reading "Critical Mass" by Paul Jenkins and Sean Phillips. I have no idea if any of this will make sense out of context, but I kept reading as I was writing, and it just continued to apply? So? Here's some of my inspiration, I guess?

“You’re sure?”

Anakin’s not sure how long it’s been since he uttered the fateful words. Their dinner is sure to be stone cold, but he doesn’t think Padmé is any hungrier than he. All the ambient sounds of their household have grown loud, incessant, almost exigent in the pervasive quiet that she’s only just broken.

“I don’t know. I need to…to meditate.”

“Anakin, you’re either sure or you’re not.” Padmé tenses, the energy building within her body vibrating like a seismic charge primed to go off.

“Then I’m not sure. But the way he said it, Padmé…” Anakin rests his head in his hands. “I’ve considered the possibility, but-“

“Then go meditate. Right now, Anakin. The sooner we know for sure, the sooner we can alert the Senate and the Jedi Council and something can be done about this!” The chair screeches across the floor as she shoots up, features full of fury. “If it is him, then he doesn’t know that you’re aware. He can’t have known. It’s grandstanding, Ani! He’s flaunting it in your face. You told me Qui-Gon said that it was likely that the Sith were aware of you. He asked you here, he’s done nothing but inveigle you since you got here, catering to your interests, spending extra time courting your friendship. Palpatine has always been confident and self-centered. He’s playing with you, Anakin. All this time, he’s known who and what you are, positive that you’re ignorant of the truth, that you’re malleable to his whim and it’s that self-assurance that will be his downfall now. We have to know for sure so that we have as much time as we possibly can to figure this out. We don’t know what his next move might be, how quickly his timeline is advancing. This is an opportunity and we can’t afford to sit here and wallow.” Rant over, abruptly, Padmé wilts, collapses back into her seat.

“Anakin…” Her eyes are wide and sorrowful. “Anakin this is my fault.”

Bewildered, Anakin shakes his head. “What? How?”

“Me. I did this. I called for the vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum. I allowed for the election to take place.” Her tone is haunted, shaking. “I practically handed him the Chancellorship, Anakin.” 

“No.” Reaching across the table, Anakin rests his hand on hers. “I may not know exactly what you’re talking about, but if he is the Sith, he’d have found a way into the position with or without you. Padmé, you can’t take any of the blame for this on yourself. Qui-Gon says that the Sith are an insidious cult. They infiltrate and then wait, patiently, moving pieces around like the galaxy is their own private dejarik board.”

“We have to do something!” she protests, and he agrees of course, but Padmé looks half to tears, so he stands, pulling her up and into his embrace.

“Of course we do. And we will. We will.”

Softly, Padmé begins to weep, so Anakin does the only thing that he can. He holds her tight to his chest, strokes her hair and whispers, over and over again whatever reassurances he can come up with. He expects that after a while, she’ll pull back and start making a plan, busying herself about something. She usually does, and especially after that evening’s revelation, it would follow that she’d want to.

But Padmé doesn’t pull back. She just cries and cries. It’s unlike her, really. Just moments ago she’d been the hardened politician, fiercely determined, but now she’s the pale ghost of that woman, a shivering shade, only half real in his grasp.

“What is it? Padmé, my love, you’re trembling.”

“Ani…” her voice wobbles, but her fingers grip strong into the fabric of his shirt. “Ani, I have something to tell you.”

“What is it Angel?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. “What is it?”

“Anakin…” Finally, she pulls back, face ashen. “Anakin, I’m pregnant.”

Neither of them sleep well that night. Restless, Padmé tosses and turns, eventually drifting off, but Anakin lays on his back, staring at the ceiling long into the smallest hours of the next morning.

She’s pregnant.

He’s going to be a father.

It’s the happiest day of his life. He’d said so and he meant it.

It’s the happiest day of his life because he’s going to be a father but he’s about to face a Sith Lord and he’s not ready for either of those things to happen. Not in the least. Facing the Sith Lord will come first. This he is already well aware of. The sooner that happens, the better, for him, his family, the entire galaxy.

And that means one other very important thing; there’s no way he’ll be prepared when it inevitably happens.

Anakin’s under no illusion that his unnaturally rapid progress with the lightsaber is going to be any match for a Dark Force user strong enough to suppress his presence on the same planet as the Jedi Council, much less the district immediately next door to it. No amount of praise on Obi-Wan’s part or grudging respect from Cin Drallig is enough to convince him of that. He has no delusions as to what this is likely to mean for him.

For as long as he can remember, Anakin has lived with the spectre of his own death. Three years old, and yet the sight of the Arcona slave’s detonator obliterating his head is still impregnable from Anakin’s memory. To be a slave is to accept the inevitability of your own death. To be a slave is to anticipate death, even, and not of old age.

Ever since hearing the prophecy, Anakin has avoided considering it in greater detail, but he does so now, if only because he has to. Things bigger than himself are coming to the fore. Things that will not wait until he’s ready to face them. Balance was at the heart of Qui-Gon’s statement, balance between light and dark. The Sith is Darkness, of course, but Anakin doesn’t think he can rightly call himself the Light. No, everything he’s seen of himself so far is more of a split field; sometimes the white sun burns more brightly, sometimes the red sun, and that above all worries him the most. Darkness cannot subsume darkness, and a light that is already flickering will snuff out quickly when all the oxygen is eaten away. That is an unavoidable fact. No, it will take a very, very vibrant light to eradicate the darkness that is spreading so entirely through the galaxy, creeping out from every shadowed corner. And if Anakin is expected to be that light, it’s going to take more than saber training to make it possible.

Balance requires that there be neither an overabundance of dark, as there is now, or an excess of light. As he exists now, he fills neither position. Regardless of his ability to eradicate his own darkness, the likelihood that he won’t come out of this alive is overwhelming. Though the prophecy says nothing in relation to such an outcome, Anakin can read between the lines and the implication is clear.

To succeed, he must embrace the light wholeheartedly, and in doing so, create a new imbalance.

To succeed, he must not only destroy the Sith threat, but also himself.

Even in light of this revelation, Anakin’s heart does not waver, though he feels the dam building in his throat, full of all the things he will never tell his child. All the things he desires that will never come to pass. But it will be a better world, if he succeeds, and succeed he must.

It is not death that Anakin fears.

It never has been.

There are much more concerning things than his own inevitable death for Anakin to be preoccupied with.

The well inside him is overflowing with blue-white light like water. Reaching his hands in, he feels the energy spark through his veins, drawing him down and in. It’s cool and warm at once, refreshing and comforting. His body falls away, released from his mind’s preconceptions leaving only intent.

Anakin visualizes the storm. The clouds are dark and brooding near the eye, drifting light and lighter the further into the horizon that he looks. He’s in the corona of the eye, but not quite at its origin point yet. Sifting through the nexus waves, Anakin’s intent pushes him relentlessly closer towards where that point lies, serene and uninterrupted by the waves it sends in its wake. The rip tides of dark influence are strong, pushing him back again and again, washing the sand out from beneath his feet, but Anakin digs in stronger, his will digging in like talons.

 _Palpatine_ , Anakin thinks, calling forth the empty harmlessness that makes up the man’s signature in the Force. _Palpatine_.

As he reaches the shore, Anakin pulls the waves closer around him, a cloak in the Force to mask his intent. He draws on the void, to hide him sufficiently, on the flame to warm him from within, to bolster his reserve. The dark Twin shadows him from above, covering him as they stagger onto shore. Above the air is clear. Black and endless, but clear. And there, just beneath the esoteric focal point, a deep vast emptiness, lightless, sightless, soundless.

A void pocket much like his own.

The dark Twin gleefully answers to his will, grasps the hand of his intent, hiding it beneath his own, reaching forward to part the curtain so Anakin may peer behind it.

_Palpatine._

The light gives him eyes to see where light does not exist. 

A yellow-red glow is shielded by the void, dull and sickening.

A smile too similar for Anakin’s tastes.

Self-satisfaction pervades the space, which is bitter cold, so cold it burns. The bolstering warmth retreats from the fingertips made manifest from his intent, and the dark Twin’s elation grows. Gnashing mental teeth, Anakin yanks back, careful to remain hidden, all the while coiling the warmth at the center of his nascent being.

_“You will remove to Vjun, Lord Tyrannus. There you will find a more hospitable base for your gathering dark.”_

The response is muffled, the connection too vast for even Anakin to reach out and tether with. He does not need to hear it.

_“Good. Good. Everything here proceeds according to plan.”_

There is a flash and he recognizes the echoing memory of his own presence in the Sith Lord’s mind, hears the iron of clinking chain, understands the alien intent which so assuredly desires to eclipse his own.

No, not everything.

It is enough. Already, the light has fled as far as his shoulder, the extension of his intent withering, his resolve against his own darkness growing weaker and weaker and the disgust and hate grows. _How dare he! How dare he pretend, how dare he simper fawningly over Anakin and yet seek to Master him. How dare he even try!_ No longer is the Twin smiling. No, that predatory smile is now a snarl of building rage.

 _Away!_ It’s a feeling more than a word. _Hurry! Now!_

And the light coalescing inside him ricochets back to the well, crystalline and undisturbed as ever.

Anakin takes a deep breath and the surroundings fade away into the familiar trappings of his bedroom.

Padmé is watching him intently, a fine line of concern between her eyes, but he doesn’t startle. Removing from the meditation is easier now that he’d accomplished it a few times, and certainly less abrupt when he’s being intentional about it. But the effort expended as he fought against the waves leaves him exhausted. Anakin barely moves, though he wants to run a finger over the soft skin of her cheek in reassurance. Even shifting his finger takes great effort, as though it’s being held magnetically to the bed, so he refrains, blinking long and slow instead.

“Were you meditating?”

“I guess.” His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

“What did you discover?” Gone is the woman who wept for her unborn child. Gone is the firelit senator impassioned by her cause. The woman before him is stone. Durasteel. Unbreakable.

“What I needed to.”

No more words pass between them. Instead, Anakin lets his eyes fall shut again, feels the whisper of her kiss and relishes in the warmth of her body beside him as he finally falls asleep. But even there, he finds no respite.

He dreams of sand, granules dancing beneath him where he rests on his knees and through the loose clutch of his fingers. His head is hung. Though light spills around him, a shadow crests his vision, hiding his own beneath its expanse. It’s wings extend, and Anakin remembers the presence of the dragon from Ilum.

Though he tries to scramble to his feet, he stumbles, falls, impeded. Durasteel links cuff his wrists and ankles.

The Dragon’s deep resounding voice shakes the desert. _I WILL BREAK YOUR CHAINS, LITTLE ONE. I WILL SET YOU FREE. WE ARE ONE, YOU AND I. TAKE YOUR POWER. EMBRACE IT AND NO ONE AND NOTHING WILL BE ABLE TO CHAIN YOU AGAIN._

Even as the shadow freezes the desert, Anakin feels tears sear like fire down his cheeks, splashing to the sand in a glaring flash, turning the granules instantly to glass. He can see his own eyes reflected there, bright impossible blue, sick with fear and fury. His fingers curl, grip. Fists form. Muscles strain.

Another tear. And another, and another.

The desert glass grows, and with each passing moment, reveals more of what Anakin cannot see. There’s a chain too, round his neck, reaching back and back. It tugs, tightens. Gasping, Anakin feels himself pulled back, the mirrors gone from his gaze. He locks eyes with the dragon, tries to speak, but the chain is too tight. Spots dot his vision, he feels himself falling away, away-

The chain relaxes, and Anakin heaves a breath, falling forward. The glass shatters under his collapsed weight, and the dragon’s laugh thunders through the empty desert.

A _flash-bang!_

Lightning.

Another.

It’s a storm.

_ONLY WHEN WE ARE ONE CAN YOU ESCAPE. ONLY WHEN YOU EMBRACE ME._

Copper and ozone linger on his tongue. Cracking an eye open, Anakin can see the sky above him, the two stars, dueling suns, white and red flaring, oscillating; eons passing in mere moments, supernova accelerating to implosion before reverting once more, the stars growing younger and younger. But their violent light reflects, and Anakin realizes that even though the mirror is shattered, he can still see what it reveals.

The chains coil and connect behind him, heavily wrought, but their length is held by wicked claws.

At first, he thinks they are the dragon’s. But the image shifts in the flickering clash of the twin suns battling above him. The dragon talons morph and in their place is a hand, just as dark, but human.

And familiar.

Black gloved. The leering smile, the gnashing teeth.

The Spectre

For the first time, Anakin sees the Twin as he never has before.

He knows that the Twin is himself, he always has known, but seeing it is something altogether different. Though the features are recognizable as his own, there is something lingeringly unsettling about them. Like he’s wearing himself as a disguise, and the cracks beneath are starting to show through, the clay of his skin fracturing under the strain, a black luminescence bursting forth, the antithesis of flame, yet just as deadly and consuming. And glaring down at him, full of hatred, the yellow-red eyes that haunt his nightmares. The only part of himself that he does not recognize at all.

And there, about the neck of the twin, is a similar chain of bright durasteel, it’s links biting into flesh, pressing against his trachea, constricting, tighter and tighter, the dark Twin’s breaths a horrendous mechanical, regulated hiss. Superimposed, for just a moment, the gleaming shadow of plastisteel armor, a skeletal mask, inhuman, uncaring, immovable.

The chains bite into his own throat as simultaneously as they do his dark Twin’s. Anakin understands now. The chains are interminable. The Darkness gives power, but only under the burden of slavery. It is that resolution alone that reassures him that the revenant that overlays his twin will never be born. It is only a glimpse into a future that will never be. A future where his chains are worn by choice. A future where he fails.

There is no future in the darkness. Only slavery. And Anakin has long ago vowed that he would die before being enslaved again. If death is merely an end, enslavement is far worse. Enslavement is the destruction of self.

All roads lead to the same moment.

All avenues bring him to the same choice.

His wrist lays exposed over the mirror, giving the appearance of twice as many birds fleeing from their shackles.

He is not broken, not yet.

Though the cold, black luminescence creeps over him like the cold hands of death, there is still a warmth within him; even the barest flicker of persistent light is enough to beat it back.

 _Padmé,_ he thinks. _Our child. My mother._

“I am not a slave.” He says, and his heart weeps with pity for the decaying rot of the revenant shadow. “And I never will be again.”

The chains shatter, and Anakin wakes up to the oppressive suffocation of insidious, shadow steeped power. Instinctively, he does the only thing he knows to do.

 _Small._ He remembers how his mother used to whisper to him. _Small. You are small. You are insignificant. You are unimportant. No one knows you are there. No one cares to see you. When you are small, you are safe._

The cloak of the Force falls over him, masking him almost in the same moment he notices the alteration, and he disappears within it’s comforting folds.

Morning is breaking; Coruscant’s dawn is different from any other, beset as it is by smog, there are few truly clear sunrises, though the colours remain spectacular. Padmé is already getting dressed. She throws a casual look over her shoulder at him before standing from her armoire to kiss him good morning. The loose nightgown is svelte to her form, and he rests his warm flesh hand gently over her lower abdomen. They share a secret smile.

If he didn’t know to look, he wouldn’t see the gentle swell of her womb, nor feel the candlelight warmth that resides there, small, but growing beneath his hand.

It’s good that it’s small.

Though Anakin has made his choice, though he can feel the irrevocability of that decision burning in his veins, the tiniest sliver of fear survives.

It’s good that it’s small.

Small is unnoticed. Small is safe.

And Anakin is certain that a rare few things ever manage to escape the Sith’s notice.

Not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He owns the only light in all the darkness. Why then does he despair? After all, he has the Children. Hidden deep in this shadowed place, far away from thieving holocaust hands, the demon Buer is their protector, their father, their teacher. And given eternity here they'll learn to thank him for his gentle reprimands. "Children Should Be Seen And Not Heard" "You'll Be Laughing On The Other Side Of Your Face" "If You Do That, You'll Go Blind" 
> 
> There are so few of them, Innocents mostly, trapped here over the ages as partial payment for services rendered. And thus begins the first lesson: There's no fairness in life or death. They are blameless, dragged screaming into the inferno by the contractual obligations of their whoremaster elders. Acrid fear and bland confusion, mixed with sickly sweet naivete, these are powerful pheromones for inmates of the dark. Buer had once been drawn to the children himself. He had bided his time, flirting with Morningstar, watching, waiting.The Fallen Angel had deliberately broken the rules - his wish to emulate the execrable Nazarene was a cry over spilt, sour milk. A pitiable attempt to recreate the glory of ages past. To Buer though, the children were nothing more than a constant reminder of his own imperfections. And when Morningstar had given control of Hell to the Three, Buer had gladly taken the brats into his custody so that the rules would no longer be ignored. 
> 
> Why then does he despair? He misses the First of the Fallen more than he would have thought possible. He lacks direction.
> 
> Clearly these disobedient children cannot inflict the pain he so desperately requires. But there is something else, an intangible fear that he hides beneath his rage. "You did this to me!" His beloved First is gone. The way is clear for the Second and Third to return to vie for position as the One. If there is but One, Buer will lose the Children. And that would be the one torment he could not endure. He finds it difficult to give up the Child, but worthwhile nonetheless. He has chosen the whelp carefully, a little suckler whose unjust condemnation adds to its appeal. A spicy valuable bargaining chip. The Crone accepts the babe greedily, smothering it in folds of putrid flesh hoping it will accept her rancid milk. Buer suspects the Child will refuse the offer for eternity, but dares not laugh just yet. In return, she looks deep into the Well and fishes out his prize. Now Buer's mind races with impatience. His blood boils with eager anticipation. Now he knows where to go.
> 
> If you fall you might never be able to get back up again. That's the risk we all take, innit? I mean, at some point for everyone it all starts to get too much. All that baggage, draggin' you down. Eventually it reaches the point of Critical Mass, your legs begin to buckle under and that's when you have to decide. Do you give in to the strain or do you get rid of the filth once and for all? Funny thing, though, now that I've made my decision, for some reason the burden seems lighter. "Third bottle's always the Charm." I pour the offending liquid on my candle, washing the light away from this side and I wonder, is this what'll eventually happen to me? This confusion, this lack of focus, is understandable though. See I'm putting my essence into hiding now and bringing my Demon to the fore. Liberation is to no longer regret the past. I revel in blessed release. (I realize I've made a mistake. I've lost everything.) Suddenly I feel like laughing out loud. All the dead weight falls away. (There's no way back. I'm trapped between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. I'm coming apart.) I'm coming apart. I say goodbye to the filth. (I float back into the nightmare for one last time.)
> 
> It's not the length of the fall that kills you just the hard dirty bit at the end. If only someone would explain that maybe you'd chuck it all in before taking the plunge. But you don't have that choice. Your first little baby thought is a suspicion that you're already doomed. Powerless you scream to the heavens in defiance. Nobody listens to your cries. You fall faster. There's no safety net now - you're flying solo. Live for today you think. Tomorrow never comes. But tomorrow always comes just like you knew it would. Now you can only find comfort in oblivion. You tumble through a cloud of self pity and despair regretting every decision you ever made. Your life speeds by too quickly to see merging into a blur of doubts and disappointment. You catch a glimpse of past mistakes and the occasional triumph. Then suddenly, you're near the end of the Fall. You know what you did wrong now. If only you could go back. If only you had more time, you think as the ground rushes up to meet you. Having said that there is one way to make the whole pointless ordeal actually mean something and that's to find the courage to wake up one day, rub the dust out of your eyes and take a good hard look at yourself.


	23. Stalemate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least one of you suspected that Padme was pregnant! Props! 
> 
> Anyways, here's another chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for every comment, kudo, and bookmark.  
> Writing this is helping me through the doldrums of Quarantine, and I can only hope that reading it is doing the same for all of you. The feedback you provide me gives me the determination to finish.

Now that he knows the source of the shroud that covers Coruscant, for Anakin it is as though it no longer exists. Beneath the veil, Anakin keeps his finger on the pulse, waiting, listening for movement, for suspect action. In the end, it takes them all of two days to decide what to do about their new insider knowledge and it’s the last thing he anticipated doing.

They keep quiet about it.

Qui-Gon is quick to agree, when he offers the suggestion.

_“The Council would rush to action. They have good intentions, but the situation, even revealed to you, is not an easy one to navigate. They will see him as a Sith threat first and a Republic threat second, but the general public know little of the ways of the Jedi. Be careful in involving them, Anakin, lest his sympathizers turn him into a martyr or near-martyr, Force forbid. You are the One who will sever the life cord of this threat. Take care to remain as unaffiliated as you can. Should anyone discover your connections to the Jedi, it would go over very badly. Keep this within the Senate. The more who distrust him at the end, the more dismantling of his plans that can be done, and indeed his backup plans too, for he surely has them, the more than can be accomplished before you meet him as his enemy, the better.”_

So at the next off-books meeting hosted in their apartment, Padmé introduces Anakin as the Senate’s unofficial spy into the office of the Chancellery.

Only Organa, Mothma, and Bel Iblis are present when she does.

“Anakin has special insight into the Chancellor’s office.” The phrasing is vague, but Anakin senses that the other Senators understand well that such a necessity comes hand in hand with political intrigue. “None of us have trusted him for a long time now. On that we’ve all agreed.” She looks between them, almost pleadingly. Swallowing, Anakin tries to hold his gaze just beyond their heads like Padmé’s suggested, though it does little to mitigate that discomfiting feeling that he gets when all eyes in a room are fixed firmly on him. “Anakin has discovered, through certain unintentional slips, that the Chancellor is working with the Separatists to organize this war.”

The declaration is met with a heavy, thick silence. Organa sits up a little straighter. Mothma’s jaw clenches and Bel Iblis’s expression sours. They’re good at schooling their physical reactions, but Anakin can feel the obviousness of their surprise and dismay in the Force. Not trusting the Chancellor is one thing, but such outright betrayal of the principles to which they had all thought to cleave is apparently another.

When Padmé feels as though the revelation has had enough time to sink in, she continues. “While Anakin works on getting closer to the Chancellor, we must work to carefully – exceptionally carefully - take the intelligence that he provides us and use it against Palpatine. It’s evident from the fact that he could play both sides so thoroughly that he’s built up an exhaustive network over the years. Decades, I would hazard to guess. We cannot take him down unless we demolish as much of his foundational support as we can.”

“I see one major problem with that, Senator Amidala,” Organa interrupts. “We want the Republic to survive this war, but we don’t want the Chancellor to survive with it. If the Republic wins, the Chancellor wins; in hearts and minds, he will be seen as the leader who brought unity and salvation after years of unforgiving war. If the Separatists win, the Chancellor still wins, because he apparently controls their leadership. How on earth is the Republic expected to survive this intact?”

“By reminding ourselves that the Separatists are not our enemies. Only the Chancellor. He’s orchestrating this. Creating problems for himself to solve, to make himself indispensable in the eyes of the people. We solve this by creating coalitions with the Separatist systems ourselves. If we can end the conflict without involving him, we may yet be able to end this war on our terms.”

“I won’t be easy,” Bel Iblis states, because someone has to. But it’s Mon Mothma who asks the question no one wants to.

“And in the end? When he refuses to give up power like the despot he is?” She looks unflinchingly at Padmé, waiting patiently for her to give an answer. But she isn’t the one who speaks.

“Leave the Chancellor to me.”

Once more, all eyes fall on him. This time, he meets their gaze, despite his nerves. “At some point, the Jedi will have to be involved, but we cannot make it seem like a hostile takeover. Our handling of him will determine - more than anything else - how the Republic continues forward. I am uniquely placed for reasons that I am not yet ready to disclose, to bridge that gap. I ask you for your trust, which I know must be difficult to give. You don’t really know me, but you do know Padmé, and I know you trust her, or you wouldn’t have stayed to listen this long. The only reason you came at all is because she asked you to do so.”

No amount of clouding can sever, even muddle, his direct line to the Force now. He feels its gentle push, and relenting, listens.

“The Chancellor is the Sith Master for whom the Jedi have been searching.”

There’s a collective gasp in the room.

“That is a heavy accusation Mr. Skywalker.” Mon Mothma has recomposed herself, but it’s clear to Anakin that she’s still shaken.

“One I do not make without the utmost certainty.”

“Please, Mon,” Padmé breaks in. “Please listen to him. I know he’s right when he says that the only reason you’re here is because of me. If you trust me to make judgments, then please, trust my husband in this.”

Warm pride fills him to feel the depth of her belief. The skeptical Chandrillan Senator is not immovable, however stoic she may be. Nodding slowly, she turns to her fellow Senators, who give their assent in return. “Very well. Anakin Skywalker?”

“Yes Senator?”

“You put yourself and your family at great risk to provide us information from the heart of this plot against the Republic.”

“I know.” The chill that her words imbue in the air is felt by all, but Anakin thinks that he might be the only one who truly understands the depth of the danger, not only to his physical person alone, but also to his soul. “But what life will they have if I don’t?”

Anakin goes alone to the Ballet. It’s agreed, after much discussion between himself and Padmé, that the best way for the Chancellor to remain unperturbed is if he can be focused on Anakin and Anakin alone. Dividing themselves, however, has never made them stronger, and that much Anakin regrets, because where Padmé is skilled in the social art of political manipulation, Anakin still lacks in that area.

Fundamentally, he’s a blunt, straightforward person. He does not lie, nor lie particularly well. Everything about him is to the point, because Anakin has survived on efficiency and efficacy. He speaks his mind, and not always at the most meet of moments. Not to mention his difficulty handling particularly authoritative people. Up until now, he knows that he’s been lucky to be able to rely on his relatively good nature when interacting with superiors, who have all been – also luckily – rather easy going in personality.

The only real existing examples of head-butting exist between his former Masters and Mace Windu.

The Chancellor, therefore, has crafted himself well to suit Anakin’s temperament. And he _does_ have a temper, even though there’s been little to spark it of late. So far, despite being perhaps the most powerful individual in the Republic (regardless of his ‘official’ powers) the Chancellor has done little more than treat Anakin as an equal, if not occasionally referring to his superiority on some occasions. It’s all false niceties, Anakin knows now. Yet, before, he’d have been hard pressed to find any rational reason to dislike the man, aside from that underlying instinct against it. The Chancellor has, to all outward appearances, been pleasant and supportive. The perfect trap.

The dangerous bit is that now, Anakin has to play into it, but not too much or too easily. It’s twofold dangerous, of course, because like a fly in a honey-trap, sickly sweet poison whispered continuously in a listener's ear can start to stick, even when logically, the listener knows better.

_You could be powerful, if you join me._

But it is Anakin who reins the Spectre now, not the other way around.

Secondly, should he be discovered, everything will fall apart from there. It’s no secret with whom Padmé is most closely aligned. And there is the baby to consider. No, what he’s about to do is a sort of lying, and if it is anything like the outright spoken version, Anakin’s none too sure that he’ll be able to pull it off for long, if at all.

It’s frightening, this most unfortunate truth about his shortcomings, and he tells her as much, shares with her the very real possibilities, the danger that’s posed. So before he leaves, dressed in his best, Padmé doing up the buttons at his collar, they make a secondary vow.

“Promise me,” Padmé says. “Promise me that everything he tells you, you’ll share with me. Every word he says to you will need to be closely analyzed. Let me help you. Let us do this together, Anakin. As in everything. Even though I won’t be there with you, let me help you when you get home. I’ll help you balance. Decompress.”

“I trust you. And I want to believe that nothing he can say will change that, but he has years of experience twisting people to his will. So you might have to remind me, Padmé. You might have to fight for me. But I promise, before it comes to that, that I will have done all that I can to fight for myself. When I get home, I’ll tell you everything. I swear it. No matter how unimportant a detail he makes it seem. I know what he is. At least I have that on my side.”

He shudders to think when may have happened if he didn’t.

“Look at me, Anakin.” Almost roughly, Padmé holds him by the shoulders, forcing him to face her. “Look at me.” He doesn’t need to see her to look at her anymore. Passion rolls off of her in waves. “We’re forever, Anakin. You and I. Forever.”

“Forever.”

Before he leaves, he kisses her, gentle. He suspects that ferocity will tire him before long. It is in gentleness which he wishes to reside. With one last touch to the place where their child is growing, he sweeps away towards the balcony platform where the speeder is parked.

All his emotions burble dangerously close to the surface, so he takes each and every one of them – the worry for his family and the disgust at his inevitable proximity to the very incarnation of evil being chief among them – and folds them away within the Force for safe keeping, right alongside the bright, warm flicker of his child.

Safe, secure, small.

What he keeps on display is a carefully cultivated selection for Palpatine to pick from. Nervousness, – this is a very high end event, with a very powerful figure, alongside whom Anakin does not feel he belongs – irritation, - Padmé is not there with him, though the real reason will remain disguised – and boredom – never has Anakin once even given thought to the fact that the Mon Calamari even _practiced_ Ballet, much less ever had a desire to see one. Tatooine does _not_ give rise to cultured individuals, nor individuals particularly disposed to be interested in such culture.

It’s what Palpatine will expect from him, he’s sure, but keeping the balance between catering to expectations and being too…predictably exact to the Sith Lord’s interests will be an ongoing work in progress. Perhaps it’s good that he’ll be indulging in such cultural ventures. Maybe he’ll learn something by way of acting that can help him. The petulant part of him, still so much a child, highly doubts it.

So, as he nears the Galaxies Opera House, Anakin decides to think of things on a little different terms.

His toolbox isn’t equipped for culture or espionage, and well it shouldn’t be – the Chancellor would notice if he was acting anything other than as himself; they’ve met enough times for him to have a clear picture of Anakin’s personality. But, he does have the Force, and the ability to listen to it, the ability to cloak himself in it.

There is knowledge, not ignorance, as Obi-Wan had said. And his knowledge of the truth is the only other tool he’ll need.

He hopes.

“Welcome, Anakin, welcome!” The Chancellor says in his usual sycophantic tones. “Such a shame that dear Padmé could not be here to join us.”

“Yes. She is…quite busy.”

This time, the smile is sympathetic. “No time even for her new husband? Well, such is the life of a politician, I’m sure you understand. Yet, such a shame all the same.”

Anakin chooses not to respond to that particular probe. He’s ever held his relationship with Padmé in the most private of considerations, even though he’s never made secret his utter devotion and adoration for her.

“Well,” the Chancellor starts up again. “Never we mind. We shall enjoy the Ballet with or without her. Though I imagine there would have been more attention paid to the actual Ballet had she accompanied us. I have a few things about which I was hoping to use the opportunity to speak to you, non-business affairs, you understand.”

“What sort of subjects did you have in mind?” Anakin asks, falling into step just beside the man, his red guards both ahead and behind them as they are escorted to his private box.

“Well, I just so happened to get a tip on a new line of speeders that are backlogged in production, until the end of the war, you see. Light, fast…”

Speeder talk is luckily easy. What’s not is reminding himself that that ‘speeder talk’ is supposed to be easy. By controlling the topic, the Chancellor controls their every interaction. It’s a ploy – a good ploy – to make him feel comfortable.

And Anakin well knows how little he likes not being in control. Which means that he has to give in. For appearances sake. Which maybe means that he’s in control after all? It’s all too confusing, so he puts it from his mind, focuses instead on engine stats, lest the Chancellor suspect him of disinterest.

It goes on for some time, until Palpatine says; “And of course, that’s _if_ they ever come into production. What with the war, well, you know. You’re at the production plant every day. It’s all warships and cruisers. Nothing fun or exciting. No, no indeed.”

A Mon-Calamari ballerina executes an incredibly intricate series of movements, and the hushed crowd, including Palpatine, claps. “Tell me, Anakin. You’re a Republic Citizen. One of my own constituents. What do you think of the war?”

So long ago, now, it feels that Padmé had warned him about such a question.

“Well, I hope that it ends?” he says, and at least he doesn’t have to fake his uncertainty in this topic.

“Don’t we all. But surely you have thoughts? You are, after all, the husband of a very prominent Senator.”

Anakin prickles at the mention of his wife. “I have thoughts, sure, but Padmé knows a lot more than me. It’s not really my area of expertise. I spent too long outside of the Republic to have a lot of insight.”

“Outside the Republic? I knew that you weren’t from Naboo. Where are you from, then?”

“Tatooine.” Something in the Chancellor’s tone tells him that this isn’t truly new information.

“Well, you are a citizen of the Republic, you have a say in the world in which you live now. Tatooine is quite unlike our more civilized system alliance, but there must be things about living there that relate to your beliefs, ways that you might wish to change the world now that you have the opportunity to do so?”

Immediately, before he can even stop himself, consider the power that it will grant, the truth comes out. “Slavery.” He hates the word. He hates saying the word. He hates even thinking the word.

“Ah,” says Palpatine.

One simple syllable, but beneath it, Anakin feels the subtlest flare of that dark luminescence.

“A disgusting practice. Would that I had the power to do away with it.”

 _Careful now_. “I have often wondered why the Republic does not take a harsher stance on the practice.”

"The Republic is full of corruption, Anakin. There is only so much that people like myself, like your dear wife, are able to do. Only so much influence we alone can exude when so many gain so much from allowing it to run rampant and ignored through so many systems.”

_The greatest deceptions are born of the simplest truths._

“If you have such little power to affect the Republic, then how can I be expected to feel as though having a say is worth anything? It’s tantamount to yelling at a Brubb. No matter what you say or how loud, they can’t hear you.” 

“Every voice makes a difference to the volume of the whole, my boy. Persevere.” An unfamiliar look comes over the Sith’s face, and Anakin thinks that this may truly be the first unshaded glimpse he has ever had of the man. “Everything in politics is a competition and the number one competition is the waiting game. Sooner or later, people forget, move on, die off. Or, they don’t. Those that don’t, win. Patience is the key to survival.”

The air around them is ice. Anakin disdains to shiver, lest he give himself away.

“Like waiting for the right moment in a race to pull ahead. If you jump the gun, you lose the race.”

Thin lips spread wan over pale features. “Precisely, my boy. Precisely.”

Frighteningly enough, Anakin agrees.

Even though it’s late when he gets home, Padmé is waiting up for him, sitting only in the dim light of their common quarters. She looks ill; while it would be a result of the pregnancy, he’s fairly sure it’s too soon for that.

The moment she sees him enter, she sighs in relief, and looks much better for it.

“Thank goodness you’re home,” she whispers needlessly, sinking into the comfort of his arms before leading him back to the settee. “Tell me everything.”

As he painstakingly begins to relate to her everything that passed between them, she almost instantly cuts in.

“He’s using me to get to you.” She frowns. “He wants to make you irate with me. To highlight our differences. He’s already been doing that before tonight, I think. Remember when he gave you the tickets? I think perhaps he chose that time slot because I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

The fierce light of their marriage bond sears under the metal of his ring. “He can never drive us apart,” Anakin vows, but Padmé sighs.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t try. Keep it in mind,” she cautions before he continues on. Though she mostly just holds his hand and nods, when he gets to the speeders, she almost laughs. “It’s an old politician’s trick, Ani. When you’re in a comfortable conversation, you let your guard down. He’s trying to connect with you, put you at ease. You’re more pliable that way. Don’t fall for it.”

Another lesson is filed away.

But it’s when he gets to the actual political talk that he starts to feel her own creeping nervousness invade his own.

“I think I made a mistake.” Already it seems to Anakin as though one of the broken links in the chain around him has been repaired. “He asked me what I want for the galaxy. What I want to be done. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know how he did it, but I just... I said what was on my mind. About…”

“Slavery.” Padmé’s expression is grim, but tender somehow, at the same time. Like she wants to take him in her arms and hide him away from all the world. “Chances are he already knew, Ani. If he’s been looking into you…”

“I know.” _But that doesn’t change the fact that I vocalized my own weakness._ “I gave him power over me. Just like that. He didn’t even have to try.” Hysteria – totally uncalled for – rises in his throat. “I’m not…I’m not cut out for this.”

“You can do it, Anakin. You’re not alone. We’re in this together. I promise. I promise, my Love. I won’t let him control you. You have to take what you’ve told him and weaponize it against him. He’s going to do the same to you. That’s part of a politician’s job, unfortunately. But you have the upper hand. He thinks you don’t know what he’s doing. But you do. You do. His technique requires that you’re ignorant of the fact that he’s trying to manipulate you, Anakin. Without that, he has no power. You’ve taken it from him, and he’s the one who is ignorant.” She brings a hand to his cheek, and only when she does, does Anakin realize that he’s shed a few tears in frustration.

“Palpatine prizes power and knowledge above all else.” Her voice is strong, a rock in the storm. “He’ll start asking you more about your thoughts, hoping that you’ll give hints. About me, and my actions, about your own thoughts and beliefs. You have the ability to pick and choose what he learns. And that can be a great weapon indeed.”

 _And,_ he reminds himself. _You made a choice. If it comes to that, you have the Light._

And the light, he knows, is the most powerful knowledge of all.

It is the knowledge of self, as ugly and discomfiting as it may be.

He wraps himself in the twofold warmth of his wife’s embrace, as well as the camouflaging folds of the Force that shield that inner light away from prying eyes, pure and blazing as it is. There, beside it, hides his love, his worry, his heart.

Altogether, they warm, pushing back against the retreating cold that seeks to claim him when the reckoning is upon them.


	24. Augmentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, today was the first day that I wasn't able to write a chapter because I was so busy working, so I am sure glad that I have a chapter in my back pocket.

They develop a strategy. It’s impossible to determine what things the Chancellor might bring up or ask him, but it’s always good to be prepared. So he never steps into the Chancellor’s office or whatever setting he’s been invited to, he’s never completely bereft of support, nor does he go in blind. Though the Chancellor is working a strategy, Anakin is doing so too, saying what’s been agreed upon, or what the Force urges him is right to say. When it’s all over, Padmé debriefs him, shares his insights with Mon, Bail and Garm, and they brainstorm new things for him to provide. Meanwhile, he knows that they’ve been quietly organizing with the rest of the Senators who frequent Padmé’s circles, who are now secretly calling themselves the Delegation of 2000. All told, it’s a rather minimal number relative to the actual size of the Galactic Senate, but it’s still a significant and influential portion of leaders who are each tasked with their own roles as well, taking the information Anakin provides, or information that other…agents…have discovered and making quiet alliances be the leaders of various countries who have succeeded to Separatist Control.

And while this is all going on, so to do everything else that was _already_ going on. It feels less overwhelming now that Anakin finally has something that feels truly productive to do. The Shuttle is less his job than it is a hobby, and lightsaber training is a different sort of duty. His job is the time he spends with the Chancellor, which fluctuates in frequency. Anakin doesn’t push. Better to let the Chancellor think that he’s still in control of it all.

Strange; for as little as he likes spending time with the Chancellor, he finds that he grows anxious when too long a space of time has gone between their meetings and outings. Even communiques.

Padmé is his consolation, and he hers. She’s just a busily frantic as he is, working under the table with the Delegation as well as continuing in her usual daily slew of meetings, committee lobbying and mountains of paperwork. Not to mention the pains they take to hide her pregnancy. Though she’s still hardly showing, the future is their main consideration and she spends a lot of time organizing and putting in place plans with her most trusted handmaidens. Everyone who is in the know – namely Typho, Dormé, Sabé, Moteé – is sworn to complete secrecy. Of course, they let the reason remain implied. Padmé’s had enough close calls over the years that their reasoning in the current climate of Republic government isn’t too hard for her security team to extrapolate.

The hardest part is not telling their families, but neither wants to bring any extra attention to what’s going on, nor risk the information being intercepted. So, they wait. She’s not so far along, Anakin thinks, but every moment that isn’t spent on any of the other high priority elements on his plate is spent discreetly using Artoo to look up information on babies and pregnancy. It feels a little like he’s been living permanently in hyperspace – moving a million trillion lightyears and hour, and yet, feeling like everything is moving so slow.

One afternoon when he’s milling about working on the shuttle, he senses something bright enter the system. Ever since his little soul searching escapade, things have been different, though Anakin is hesitant to experiment too much, for fear of prematurely exposing himself. The brightness feels undeniably like Obi-Wan, when he reaches a tendril of his ability out into the Force.

This is something they’ve talked about, too.

When to include the Jedi. Qui-Gon has been hesitant, pushing him to trust in the Force and to trust in himself, but Obi-Wan is _not_ the Jedi, at least not in Anakin’s estimation. Something about him is significant for Anakin. Something about him is significant in the Force. Despite himself, Anakin trusts his Teacher’s former Padawan.

He checks in with Gabeld before leaving – citing an appointment of some importance, which is essentially the truth – and giving her a run down of the things that should be finished in his absence. She’s competent, and industrious, and part of him wants to loop her into going back to Naboo to work with his team there when everything is finally said and done.

If he doesn’t keep thinking about the possibility of a future for himself, Anakin knows that what little semblance of function he still has will simply fall to pieces around him, dooming them all for certain.

But Paranoia has its benefits. Anakin takes multitudinous routes around the city to reach the Jedi Temple every time that he goes. After the last time he was with Kenobi, he’d been granted more or less open access to the place, though he still gets looks whenever he arrives; the few who are ever at the Temple at any given time are never the same. Knights, Masters, Padawans, all on an infinite rotation between deployments and medical rehabilitations. It’s ultimately one of the most single handedly sad things Anakin’s ever born witness to. A place that seems like it ought to be so full of life is little more than a revolving door for overburdened, burning out Republic Generals and Commanders.

Though he no longer desires to be a Jedi, the childish awe long ago commingled into his adult respect for the Order as a whole, for its members as Sentients, and it’s a true shame the desolate aura that has settled over a place that is the home of so much learning and nurturing care. Though the Jedi espouse attachment, he’s learned – and _boy_ would he have ever been a _terrible_ Jedi, knowing that that’s the case – even they cannot escape the natural tendency to care for one another. It’s a nursery, a school, a home, a rallying point, all these things which they don’t allow other outsiders to so much as glimpse.

Sometimes, Anakin wonders if that does the Jedi reputation more harm than good. Too often, he’s heard Padmé’s colleagues speak unwittingly ill of the Jedi, as though they are little more than slaves to the Republic’s whim. A comparison he cannot help but draw, and one which he detests, though it’s more than clear that most Jedi would rather fight and die than live to see democracy and human rights destroyed by the ongoing war.

He’s not done much exploring, but he doesn’t really have to have done in order to find his way to the hangars. Obi-Wan’s bright presence is enough to lead him there through the Force. The Jedi is just hopping out of a maroon and white painted Eta-2 Actis-class interceptor, when he arrives.

A flare of gentle surprise washes out of the Jedi, and an exhausted, yet patented smile, greets Anakin.

“Hello my friend. What excellent timing. I’ve just returned.”

“I know. I felt it.” Anakin chooses to ignore the look of untampered shock that flashes briefly over his friend’s face. “Do you have to debrief with the Council immediately?”

Harried, Obi-Wan brushes himself out, looking down at the ruined and scorched robes. “Not at least until I’ve changed. You can catch me up in the meantime. The fact that you here already tells me that things have…progressed in my absence.”

“When we’re in your quarters. Then we’ll talk. But not until then.” At a rapid pace, they leave the hangar; despite the fact that he’d got a bit of a limp, Obi-Wan seems to be alright for the most part, so Anakin lets it be. “I do have news for you. Lots of news. I’ll get through as much as I can before you’re summoned by the Council.”

“I’m not sure if I should be excited, anxious or concerned. I suppose I’ll find out in short enough order. No use contemplating it, is there?”

“No, I don’t suppose there is, Obi-Wan.”

The Force sings as they walk in step beside one another. Like it was always meant to be this way. Like their paths were always intended to synchronize eventually. Anakin revels in ease through which these insights now come to him. It’s as though the world lays before him in the well, as though he is always standing before the well, looking in, simply being shown the things he needs to see. Sometimes, the image is rippled, distorted. Others, it’s crystalline clear, unblemished by the tremors that wrack the Force. Obi-Wan is one thing in the Storm that remains pure. Anakin looks at him, untouched in the Force. A paragon. The signal to Anakin’s flare.

Abruptly, his heart spills over with pure relief that Obi-Wan is his friend. That there is not a single world, a single future possible in which that changes.

Against all odds, Obi-Wan Kenobi is Anakin Skywalker’s friend.

He must hide the deluge of emotion well, because Kenobi doesn’t even twitch through the duration of Anakin’s new awareness.

It’s not long before they’re at Kenobi's apartments; time tends to pass quickly for Anakin when he’s fallen into one of these moments, almost like a lapse in his own conscious being.

“Alright. I haven’t the time to use the fresher really, so get talking. What’s happened that’s got you running here to meet me the moment you _sense my presence_.”

The Force inhales.

Instinctively, Anakin knows that his next words will change the status quo.

“I know who the Sith is.”

Obi-Wan drops the boot he’s holding and stares up at Anakin, awestruck, blinking, jaw dropped.

“What?!”

The Force exhales.

The ripples over the future multiple.

“I know who the Sith is,” he repeats.

“Have you told anyone else?” Obi-Wan’s focus is on him and him alone, the fresh robes and secondary boots lying forgotten. “Anakin you must tell me everything. Immediately.” Then, as if, remembering himself suddenly; “Who is it?”

“Only Padmé, Senators Organa, Bel Iblis and Mothma, besides me. No one else. You’re the only Jedi I’ve told. I didn’t…I trust you,” Anakin finishes lamely.

“Yes, but _who,_ Anakin, _who_?”

Lifting his Force cloak, Anakin draws Obi-Wan into its reach, caresses him with a tendril of radiant calm. Physically, Obi-Wan shivers.

“What was that? How did you-“

“Peace, Obi-Wan. If you react, even involuntarily, he will know.” Perturbed, Obi-Wan just stares at him. “He’s here, on Coruscant, just as I suspected. And he’s placed within the Senate, just as I suspected. But he’s not a Senator. Not anymore.”

Obi-Wan’s breathing kicks up a notch, despite himself.

“It’s the Chancellor, Obi-Wan. He’s the Sith Lord.”

Anguish, unadulterated, seeps from the forlorn Jedi Master, and then, as if remembering himself, it syphons back away, held at bay by the better part of instinct. “You’re sure.”

It’s not a question. Anakin simply waits.

“I see. How long have you known?”

“It’s been a little over a month. Padmé and I have been orchestrating things, well, Padmé does the orchestrating, I just do what I’m told, really.”

A wry grin, weary, but present, manages to find a foothold in Obi-Wan’s expression. “If I know Senator Amidala – and I _do_ know the Senator – somehow I rather think she’d be disagreeing with you if she were here.”

Obi-Wan is right, of course, but Anakin sees no reason to admit it's true. “There’s more.”

“Of course there is.”

“He’s been seeking me out more and more frequently. Padmé and I have a strategy for that too. We drop only the hints we want him to have, I debrief with her when I get back, then she and a few other trusted individuals make heads and tails of the information. Other Senators. There’s a new coalition. A secret Delegation. We’re working to create sort of a springboard for the Republic’s foundations when the fallout from this hits. If it hits.” Which, of course, they both know that it will. “There’s still more.” And this, this is somehow more nerve wracking to admit than the identity of the Sith Lord. “Padmé and I got married. And we’re going to have a baby.”

To his credit, Obi-Wan seems to instantly understand. “Congratulations, Anakin,” he says, but somehow, the phrase sounds more like an apology than a celebration.

“Everyone knows we’re married now, but no one knows about the baby outside of you, and Padmé’s security team.”

“I won’t say a word. Thank you for honouring me with the news. It can’t have been easy for you.”

No, it really isn’t.

“What will you do with the knowledge of the Sith Lord,” Anakin asks, instead.

No matter how good Obi-Wan is at hiding his intentions in the Force, Anakin _is_ the Force in which he’s hiding. Uncertainty permeates the gentle shelter. “Will you come with me to the Council?”

Anakin wrinkles his nose. “I guess. They won’t like it. That I’ve kept it hidden.”

“No, they won’t. But the Council rarely _likes_ anything.”

“Thank you, Obi-Wan.”

“For what?”

_For everything. For nothing. For being._

Anakin shakes his head. “Just… thank you.”

Surveying him carefully, Obi-Wan sends out a careful probe into the Force, then withdraws. “You’re different. I don’t know what. But something about you is changed.”

“Later.” Anakin reassures. “We’ll talk later.”

For the second time, Anakin waits outside the Council chambers, but this time, there is no anxiety swelling within him. This time there is only acceptance. The ripples haven’t settled yet, they’re still spreading, growing. Obi-Wan has not told them. That job will be left to him. He’s positive of it. It’s not long that he stand, staring out at the Senate Rotunda in the distance, watching for the darkly luminous presence to rear its draconian head.

Maybe it’s not acceptance at all.

Maybe it’s peace. Strange, implacable peace in the middle of horrific dissent. Coruscant rings out around him in distinct cacophony, all beings calling through the Force for relief, and here, amidst the waves, Anakin finds himself unmoved. Unmovable.

When he got to this point, he’s not sure. Even after he shattered the chains of darkness gouged within him, he’d still felt that vibrant anxious energy. But now, here before the seat of judgement, it dissipates. Anakin is not the pool over whom the ripples move. Not anymore.

Now, Anakin is the droplet that creates them.

The Padawan clears his throat. “They’ll see you now, sir.”

Without hesitation, Anakin strides in.

He can feel them all. Even the ones who are only present through the shimmering flickering blue of the holo projectors. It’s a new sensation, as he shades the Council much as he had shaded Obi-Wan before. Only Yoda shifts in his seat, eyes fixed daggers on Anakin as he does so. There’s tumult in a room whose walls echo serenity. Uncertainty when the glass mirrors surety.

So much has changed, over such a long, progressive crawl, that the Council before he cannot recognize the difference in themselves.

Mace Windu is the most interesting of all. Though Anakin has long suspected that the Korun Master dislikes him, there’s an undercurrent of awe, unlooked for, uncalled for.

That is the only thing that makes Anakin feel uncomfortable. He doesn’t care for the implication in the least.

“Kenobi tells us that you have information.” Windu sits back, expression as unreadable as ever, the layered mask over the inner commotion. Commotion the Jedi isn’t even aware of. Not really.

It seems too simple, now that the shroud is beyond him, so Anakin reaches out, just a little, and _tweaks_.

Instantly, the mood in the room shifts, like every Jedi within is coming up for air after perpetually drowning for the past several decades, their rebreathers just an infinitely split second from giving up the ghost.

The resonation is cushioned by his cloak, causing it to reverberate through the room as the Council members look from him to one another is surprise and mild disorientation.

“You don’t need me to tell you. Not when I can show you instead.”

He knows the path through the waves now, no longer fears to be beaten back. All his life, Anakin’s been treading through sand. He knows how to dig in. He knows how to survive. Reining in the shadow, he shelters them all, draws back the shroud so they can each see and feel for themselves, know and understand without words.

It is in the Force the Jedi trust, not in ancient prophecies and unbidden, untrained saviours.

When they all resurface, when Anakin replaces the shroud, beats back the shadow, calling it to heel, the Council members look around in numb shock.

Yoda, looking smaller, though he is a giant in the Force, hangs his head sadly.

“That see this we could not disturbing is. That know we now, our only hope may be.”

Though he doesn’t look at Anakin, Anakin knows he’s being addressed.

Mace Windu, pensive, waves a hand towards an empty spot beside Obi-Wan. “Take a seat Skywalker. We’re gonna be here for a while.”

 _That_ , Anakin thinks, _is an understatement._

The session runs long into the night. They ask him all manner of questions, about Palpatine. About himself. About Padmé’s plans with the Senate. He answers all that he knows how, talking until his voice is almost gone hoarse. By the end of the session, Anakin’s sure the only real secret left to him is his unborn child, whom he guards meticulously. Not even Qui-Gon’s hermitage in the Netherworld of the Force is spared from revelation.

By the end of the session, Mace Windu is not the only Jedi in the room who carried an undercurrent of awe.

“We will continue working under the current process. You will no longer be the only spy, Skywalker. We will do what we can to aid you as conspicuously as possible until such time as secrecy is no longer needed or can no longer be afforded.”

He can feel the wrap up impending, when the Cerean Jedi Master, Ki Adi Mundi speaks up.

“And what then? We are right to be cautious that the Republic might not misunderstand our intentions, but the man is a Sith. And a Master no less.”

Shaak Ti, the Togrutan Master, nods in agreement. “The Republic will not be able to hold him. Even if they could, they are well under his sway.”

Various other members rumble their agreement, and Anakin catches the weight of their glances landing on him, but it is Obi-Wan’s stare that is the heaviest in the room.

“Believed, Master Qui-Gon did, that you, Young Skywalker, the Chosen One are.” Yoda gives voice to the thoughts that swirl through the room. The declaration settles over Anakin, riveting him in place. “Know this, I sense you already do. But matters not, what Qui-Gon believed. Matters only what you,” the little green master points a forceful finger at Anakin. “do with the belief. So, young Skywalker. What believe you, hmm?”

Only the most tentative thread connects him yet to the leaf above the well. Possibility swells around him, sings, chimes, echoes in the Force. The carrying reverberations of that years old Shatterpoint. Slowly, he’s sliding, the droplet nearly ready to fall, in full, the ripples on the brink of becoming waves, carrying from a different direction, against the prevailing current.

The anticipatory spike in adrenaline pierces the protective bubble of possibility.

Anakin hears – but does not hear; he’s beyond the physical senses now – Obi-Wan’s heart pound.

_Thrum-thrum._

_Thrum-thrum._

“I don’t believe,” he says. He only understands that he says it. His body is insignificant.

Insubstantial.

He is so much more than his body now, if he lets himself be. So much more than his senses. Ethereal and luminous, the gossamer construct of his being is buoyed by the Force. He is the adegan crystal, his body the hilt, his intent the focused beam of light energy that splays from within.

Twin suns are his heart and lungs, a supernova his essence. A black hole his being.

“I know.”


	25. Adumbration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look for everyone's favourite star wars catch phrase!
> 
> Also, this chapter brought to you by the two most important songs on the Anakin playlist of my 2006 self: Comatose by Skillet (which I first heard in a padme/anakin fanvid on youtube) and Numb, by Linkin Park, which is just about as Canonikin as you can get. 
> 
> We're almost to 19bby! Things are starting to reach the peak!

With the dawn of the new Galactic year drawing nearer than ever, the war amps up. Anakin’s work on the shuttle is put on hold in favour of working on new astromech integration systems in starfighters, as well as upgrades to Senate Security. It’s a ploy to keep him on Coruscant, but even if it weren’t he would stay. Both he and Padmé are integral to the continued efforts to shake the foundations of Palpatine’s corrupt reign, and even if  _ that _ weren’t so, he still wouldn’t leave.

Because Padmé won’t leave.

She’s effectively hiding her pregnancy now, though she started wearing the new ceremonial wardrobe long before she started showing, just to mitigate any suspicion. The gentle swell of her stomach is a sight that only he and a select few others ever see, so it’s more obvious to him, because he knows that it's there, but even still, it’s easy enough to disguise the changing shape of her body with the elaborate costume of her Senatorial position.

Though fear still lingers within Anakin, it feels different than it used to. Maybe it’s just because he rarely has the time to worry. Maybe it’s the techniques that Qui-Gon has been teaching him, which he practices in any free moment. Maybe it’s because of his personal revelations, his acceptance of what he is – and he is  _ sure _ , even if the Council isn’t. He knows what he is. What Qui-Gon and his mother say he was born to be.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t know, but though he still feels fear, it no longer suffocates him.

Maybe, there’s simply too much going on for him to  _ think _ about it long enough to induce such an emotion.

Maybe.

All his energy these days goes into keeping up appearances for the Chancellor, though as time goes by, he’s sure that his frustration is leaking out from beneath his cloak of the Force. Luckily, it’s not such an unbelievable emotion that he’s given away by it. In fact, he thinks the Sith Lord  _ likes _ his frustration.

If anything is worrying these days, it’s that.

Exhausted, he returns home from a long briefing session on the building security upgrades with Palpatine to find that Padmé is already asleep. The further along into her pregnancy she gets, the more this happens. Loath to wake her and too tired to feel more than a brief spike of melancholy at the fact that they’ve barely said two words to one another all day, he kisses her on the temple before crawling into bed beside her and promptly falling asleep.

Lately, tired as he is, Anakin has been spared even the most mundane of dreams, waking from a blank field as though he’d never been asleep at all.

Not this night.

The first thing he sees is her face, as though through a backlit pinhole, lovely features in utter anguish.

Anakin knows pain when he sees it.

The vision – it’s a vision, not a dream – is only half realized. The edges are rough, muddied, unclear, but her pain echoes.

_ “Anakin!” _

He shudders, forcing himself to remain within the dream, where normally the psychic resonance of distress would have instantly thrust him back to waking. It’s a vision. He  _ has _ to know.

She’s pale, sweating, crying.

_ “Anakin!” _

He can’t hold it. Consciousness rushes back to him, and the vision winks away, but her pain lingers, cycles through him with every ragged breath.

“Ani?”

Desperate, he focuses on the simple query in her voice, the lack of distress. It’s soothing, and he let’s the vision fall away as best as he can.

“Ani, what is it?” Her tone now is evidence of how much a part of one another they’ve become. “A premonition? You haven’t had one in ages. Tell me, Ani.”

Anakin hides his face in his hands, rubbing them over, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Already, he can feel the onset of a headache. The gentle pressure of Padmé’s hand on his back is a touchstone, and he takes the time to slow and even his breathing. Everything about the vision makes him want to scream in frustration. It’s so imprecise, so muddled, where usually his premonitions are crystal clear. A sign of the times, if ever there was one.

“I don’t know. I have to try and meditate. It was…obfuscated. Confusing.”

Uncertain.

Qui-Gon’s warnings ring in his memory.

“Alright. You’ll tell me later, then.”

“Yes. I will.”

From behind, she hugs him tightly, rests her chin on his shoulder. “I love you.”

The phrase, always so easy from their lips, feels fragile in the wake of his vision. But he says it anyways. “I love you, too. Go back to sleep. I’ll tell you what I know in the morning.”

“Try and get some rest?”

To that, he does not provide an answer, because even to suggest that he’d try feels like a lie in the moment. Instead, once she’s laid back in bed, Anakin exits their room for the kitchen, starts by making himself some tea, listening to the ambient noises of their apartment, the rhythmic tick on the chrono, the subtle buzzing of the kettle. The semi-regular drip of water from the faucet. Each peace draws him close to the warm center of his calm. Anakin hasn’t felt like this in…in ages. Tatooine, probably. But the pervasive sense of helplessness cannot master him anymore.

The rote motions of measuring the tea leaves, cutting off the heat at the precise temperature, the soft stream of water into the stoneware cup draw forth a semblance of normalcy that he’s always desperately craved, and by the time that he has his flesh hand wrapped around the almost stingingly hot vessel, he’s already halfway to the state that Qui-Gon insists isn’t so much ‘meditation’ as ‘trance’. But then, Anakin’s not a Jedi, not really, so what does it matter?

Looking down at the mug, he blows softly, watching the ripples as they form and transcend, revealing the well in the Force.

A familiar presence lingers nearby.

“Hello Teacher.”

“Anakin, you are troubled.”

He huffs a laugh. “What else is new?” But true to form, Qui-Gon only waits for him to continue. “I had a vision. Maybe a premonition like in the past, but it’s different. Uncertain. Padmé. In pain.”

“Be wary, Ani. This is a dark time for dark thoughts.”

“She’s been in danger as long as I’ve known her. That’s nothing new. The last time I had a vision like this, it was my mom, and the other Jedi. But those things were certain. They were clear. I can see through the shroud of the dark side, so why not this?”

A hand falls on his shoulder. “Anakin, you do not need me. I have given you my every thought on this subject once before. There is no more I can do for you now. If this is a trial, you endure it alone.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Qui-Gon is gone. Instead, he turns back to the rippling well. In its mirrored surface, he does not see the expanse of the universe, or the trajectory of the galaxy. Inside, he sees only his own reflection, distorted and marred.

“What is it that I’m supposed to understand?!”

Despite the frustration, or because of it, nothing changes. Anakin clenches his fists, slides down to sit against the well, hands resting in his lap.

One metal and circuitry, revealed free of his glove, the other calloused flesh. Never before has his duality been thrown into such sharp relief. Lately, he’s struggled with the enormity of the truth about himself. It leaves him feeling alien when he returns from the odd and unknowable comfort of being embraced by the manifestation of all life and possibility, of being one with it. Now, however, he feels irritatingly human, every pithy emotion flaring irrationally. He should be able to see! He should be able to know! He’s wanted nothing his whole life but to be his own person, though even the circumstances of his birth seem to circumvent that reality, and only now does he long for the electric undercurrent of that deific presence’s power.

And only now does it seem billions of light years away.

So instead, he does the last thing he really wants to, and reexamines the vision.

It comes to him through emotions, rather than a visual medium. Opening his mind, Anakin registers first the fear, then the distress and the suffering. All turbulent, dark feelings. If he had not previously experienced such a thing with his mother, Anakin might have been inclined to attribute the elusive nature of the vision as the result of the oppressive darkness that hangs perpetually over Coruscant, but that’s not the case.

So he takes the visual instead, scouring it for any clues. Already, the vision of her contorted features are emblazoned in his memory, but with each review, it gets no easier.

Eventually, with nothing to show for it but further exhaustion, Anakin gives up.

Dawn is breaking when he leaves the meditation. Padmé is already bustling carefully about their common area, grabbing up datapads and reviewing the holonews while she nibbles absently on a few slices of fruit.

Stifling a groan, Anakin removes from his position, joints aching, and though it's clear that she notices, she doesn’t look up.

“Good morning, Ani,” she says when he comes up behind her, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. She lifts the little plate of fruit in offering and he gratefully accepts. “Anything?”

“No.”

“Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

He doesn’t insult her by putting voice to his doubts. “It was of you. I saw your face. You were in pain. You called for me. You were afraid. I don’t know why. I can’t seem to find anything else.”

Brows drawing together in concentration, Padmé purses her lips. “And Qui-Gon?”

“Has no new suggestions.” Anakin flops down on the settee beside her, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

“You’re tired. You should get some rest. Call in. You’ve done nothing but work yourself to the bone lately.” Sure, it’s hypocritical, but Anakin chooses not to make that comment either. She’s only looking out for him, after all.

“If I don’t go in, all spend all day thinking about it, and I can’t stand that.”

Skeptically, Padmé raises a brow. “Not if you’re asleep. Then you’ll just be asleep.” Unintentionally, his expression must darken, because she stiffens. “You’re afraid. You’re afraid you’ll see it again.”

“It’s all I saw all night long. I need a break, you’re right, but work  _ is _ the break this time.”

“Be careful, Ani.” Caution edges her steel resolve. “Just because you know the danger doesn’t mean that you’re immune from its effects.”

The rest of the day progresses in much the same way. Anakin’s snappish at work, fumbles his tools more than once, burns his hand, gets electrocuted by accident and once by Artoo, who is just as peeved. Nothing worthwhile gets done; for the first time in his life, when Anakin sets to work, things break instead of being fixed. By evening, he feels flayed raw, every sound and ever touch veritable agony. He’s tired and ornery and he glowers at everyone on the speeder lanes during the ride home. What makes it worse is that even while he’s so volatile, he’s starting to worry about  _ being volatile _ too. She’s right. He needs the sleep, desperately, already teetering on the brink of functionality.

But that night, the dream finds him again.

And the night after.

And the whole week after that.

Anakin knows full well that he can’t continue like this. He’s jumpy, and growing frankly paranoid, constantly searching out her presence in the Force to calm himself that nothing has happened to her while they’re apart. To her credit, Padmé schools her reactions and says nothing though he’s positive that he must look progressively more terrible by the day. Even if she had, he doesn’t think he would make a difference.

Frankly, he’s just too tired to give into a thunderous mood anyways.

So, instead, after dinner one night, both of them at their wits end, he takes the glass of water and the sleeping meds she practically forces into his hand and promptly goes to bed.

Instantly, he finds himself mired in the same vision.

Except this time, he doesn’t wake up. It’s like a corrupted holovid, replaying over and over, glitching at the end so that only a few moments cycle through, the feed of her distress pumping into him relentlessly without respite.

Never,  _ never _ has he experienced  _ anything _ like this before.

Anakin tries to wake. He tries everything he can think of, from mentally pinching himself, to trying to ‘close’ his eyes, to manifesting himself in the theatre of the mind and slapping himself.

In the end, the only thing that works is when he manifests his lightsaber in his hand, igniting it and bringing it down where the stump of his arm would end in real life, and the false limb begins. The act of severing the arm in the dream is enough catalyst to springboard him to waking, finally, though it’s with a true scream of phantom pain.

Clutching the join of his arm with the prosthesis, Anakin takes a moment to will the sensation away before glancing around. He’s not been asleep long, but it seems like it was an eternity. Spare moments later, Padmé peaks her head in.

“Again?”

He nods, unable to speak. It feels so real, he’s almost wary to look at her, for fear that the premonition will superimpose her present self, drowning him again in the cyclical agony.

“This can’t go on. It’s going to kill you, Anakin, before it kills me. Please, let me help you through it. Like you would after a meeting with Palpatine. The principle is the same, isn’t it?”

But she  _ can’t _ . She  _ can’t _ help him,  _ he _ has to help  _ her _ !

“I-“

“Anakin.” His name on her lips is fierce, a ferocious command. And she’s the only one he’s comfortable enough to bend to. “This is what we do, my love. Remember? Talk to me, don’t lose yourself to this. Let me be your strength, now.”

Unknowingly, she has stumbled upon the only words he thinks could ever bring him up from beneath the onslaught, and he hears Qui-Gon, so, so long ago now, reminding him of something altogether different.

_ Your focus determines your reality. _

Locking his jaw, teeth clacking, Anakin refocuses, dismissing the turbulent storm, and focuses instead of the beautiful glow of life and light that fills the space. His wife,  _ living, living _ , heart pounding dauntlessly in her chest, and their child, effervescent in the Force.

Almost instantly, the proxy emotions fade to the wayside, and he realizes that his breathing comes easier – he hadn’t even noticed there was anything wrong with it in the first place. Reaching instinctive with need, Anakin takes her hand, draws metaphysically on her own Force presence, amplified by the baby growing within her, and joins his own to hers. It’s a bond only he can enact between them, he’s discovered in his further explorations of the Force, though it was there long before he knew to look for it. There’s another for his mother, and one that’s a little different with Qui-Gon; whether that’s because it’s non-familial or because the Jedi is dead, Anakin’s not sure.

Regardless, he does as she says, soaking up her love and support through the bond. Though she doesn’t know she’s projecting, she is, and it soothes him like little else can.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

Softly, she touches his cheek, her thumb running over his lips a little, and she smooths down to cup his jaw.

Anakin matches his breathing to hers, and then, shifts his focus back to the dream. Mindset is a lot, but not quite everything. When he lets the memory play out, he tenses his grip on their bond, but it’s nothing like before. Her presence is a filter, a screen separating him from the vision, and he manages to look upon it somewhat less personally than before. Removed from the suffocation of emotion, he sees the vision with new awareness.

It looks like a premonition. It even felt like one. But something is distinctly altered. The darkness thrashes against the constraint, generated by the dream, amplified by the repetition, feeding off of the reciprocate emotions that harbour in the black pits of his heart.

The vision is a trap. Artfully laid to ensnare him.

One he would have – did – fall into with blind abandon.

Coiling like the decayed mockery of an umbilical cord, the infant tether of a poisoned bond, disappearing into the mist of malice that births the vision into his mind.

Sidious.

On pure instinct, Anakin recoils.

Though he’s never been frostbitten before, this is what he imagines it must feel like. He comes back to himself, finds Padmé watching him searchingly.

“What is it? There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

He’s shaking. Hands unsteady, he leaves them lay in his lap. “Obi-Wan was right.  _ He _ knows about me.” The thought leaves Anakin feeling ill. He submerses himself in the Force, in her, in their child, craving the comfort of it. “The vision…” he shakes his head, and she bites her lip, eyes shining with worry. “It’s not real. It’s a trap. And I fell for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has always been my belief that the visions about Padme were sent to Anakin by Sidious. Reading things like Labyrinth of Evil and whatnot showcases just how much more powerful Sidious' influence over Anakin was when they were in the same location.


	26. Solicitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! I keep forgetting to say. Whenever I reference something that's like...a 'thing' like, say, Palpatine being into speeder racing, for example, that's a legit thing. I don't make up things like that. Everything is already preestablished. This story is equal parts me writing and equal parts me reading through article after article on wookieepedia so that I can find the names of upscale Coruscanti restaurants that existed during the period of the Galactic Republic. Specs about ships? I use the incredible cross sections books and images. Same with battles and Jedi locations. 
> 
> Even the mention of Anakin taking the steps two at a time - if it's here, it's probably legit. When Obi-Wan delivers the news about Quinlan Vos' units on Poz Pity in Episode III, Anakin skips every other step. 
> 
> Descriptions of Force stuff is another story, but there's a lot of that that's extrapolated from various novels. Anyway, I just want to impress upon everyone reading about the massive breadth of information that's available and incredibly well curated in the 'legends' tabs. 
> 
> The timeline is maybe a bit janky this go around, but oh well. Maybe you'll pick up on just exactly where we're at. Should be pretty obvious about now. 
> 
> Credit to the script of Ep III there are two sections here that either are or practically are word for word lifted from the script. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support of this story. We are so very nearly at the end now. Thank you for sticking with me.

When he goes to the Temple, Obi-Wan isn’t there, much to his dismay. The Master is a great general and Anakin finds that it’s hit or miss at any given time whether or not he’ll find Obi-Wan on planet; almost as soon as he’s brought back, it seems that he’s sent back out just as quickly, with only enough time to recover from whatever fatigue or blaster grazes he may have accumulated in the process.

Even Yoda is unavailable, though a Padawan informs Anakin that he is present in the Temple. So instead, Anakin is brought before Mace Windu, who confronts him now less with skeptical mistrust and more with grave concern.

“Skywalker. To what do we owe this visit?”

“A concern. A major concern. May I speak with you in private?”

“You may.”

Once they’re ensconced in a private meditation chamber, there can be no more denying the truth. “I’ve had many premonitions in my life,” he begins. Windu reflexively laces his fingers together, steepling the points and pressing them against his lips. “Even when I was a child, I knew that Qui-Gon and Padmé would come to Tatooine. I saved my mother from kidnap and torture. I foresaw but could not prevent the tragedy at Geonosis. True premonitions. I’ve had dreams too, warnings, before. About terrible things that could have come to pass, but never did and never will. I had what I thought – no, what I was convinced – was another premonition. Of my wife. In terrible, terrible pain. Over and over again. A prison of the mind. But it wasn’t a premonition. It was planted there.”

“By the Sith.”

“Yes.”

“Which can only mean one thing. He’s formed a bond with you, hasn’t he?”

Anakin only nods solemnly.

The Korun Master sighs heavily. “You’re right to be concerned. Be very careful of this bond, young Skywalker. It is clear that he hopes to draw you into the dark through this manipulation. We cannot safely do away with it without alerting him, and we are nowhere near prepared yet to allow for that to happen, but it makes you vulnerable, especially considering your…present undertakings, if you will.”

“I know.” Anakin presses his lips thin. “What should I do?”

Windu shakes his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game. Shelter yourself as best as you can from it. There is no emotion, Skywalker. There is peace. Be at peace, because you have knowledge. There is no ignorance.”

“Obi-Wan’s said that before. About knowledge and ignorance,” Anakin chooses to say; he knows that the first bit is just plain wrong. There’s plenty of emotion, even when he manages to put it aside.  _ Big _ difference.

“Good. Let it serve you as it serves Obi-Wan and all other Jedi. You may not be one of us, but our tenets can help you.” Windu narrows his eyes. “How often do you still meet with the Sith?”

“It’s sporadic still, especially since that whole debacle with the Sector Governance Decree.” The announcement had thrown the entire Senate into turmoil, leaving Anakin free, for a time, from any surprise meetings, though it only made Padmé busier. “It’s been a while, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I was summoned again soon. He’ll probably want to,” Anakin pauses to gather himself, smiling thinly. “Assess his progress.”

“A fair speculation.” Windu stands. For all that he appears serene, Anakin can see that he’s troubled. “Thank you for informing me. I will bring this information to the council.” At first, it seems as though that’s all he’ll say, but Windu stops and turns, a surprisingly empathetic look in his eyes. “I am sorry that there is no more I can do for you, Skywalker.”

“It’s alright,” Anakin replies, already feeling far away. “I didn’t figure you could.”

The next day, as though the Sith’s ears were burning, Anakin receives a summons from Palpatine. The Chancellery looks as it always does, though there may be a new art piece or two, and the Chancellor is just as accommodating as ever. They spend much of the time talking about the new security work, before the Chancellor pauses.

“Anakin, my boy, are you getting enough sleep?” Concern practically drips from his words, though Anakin’s only positive that he feels that way because he knows better.

“Ah, well, not really.” It wouldn’t do to lie. There’d be no discernable reason for him to do so.

The slightest flicker passes over Palpatine’s features. “I am a listening ear, my young friend. Tell me, what’s on your mind that keeps you from sleep?”

“A dream. Bad dream.”

“Well, I see. Bad dreams can-“

“My bad dreams usually come true.” Oh, it’s a risk. A big risk, but showcasing trust is an important component, Padmé had tried to remind him more than once.  _ If he thinks you trust him, you can control that assumption. _

“Oh my. That is a problem then, isn’t it? Tell me of your dreams. Maybe I can help.”

Anakin does his best to look puzzled, translating it into disbelief, which is at least honest enough. The Chancellor  _ helping _ him? Helping himself, more like.

“I dream of…pain. Suffering. Maybe death. I’m…worried.” He swallows, nervous. “About Padmé.”

“One’s wife is a reasonable thing to worry about!” The Chancellor continues to peddle his sympathy. “Do tell, when have your dreams come to pass before?”

“My mother.” Just mentioning  _ her _ in this man’s presence is enough to make Anakin’s skin crawl. “I saved her from death. Once, as a little boy, I dreamed that I would meet Padmé. That happened too.”

Conciliatingly, Palpatine nods. “I can see your conundrum, dear boy. This is indeed a power to be worried about. You have… friends among the Jedi, yes? If I recall correctly, you wife introduced you to one of their order.”

It’s a probing question, and Anakin thinks as fast as he can. He doesn’t know what else Palpatine might know of his comings and goings on Coruscant. He’s never felt closer to being undone. Ultimately, he shrugs. “Not really. Not friends, no.” Just one friend. Obi-Wan.

“Ah, no help there then.”

“No, no help there.” And there hadn’t been, after all.

The Chancellor folds his hands. “Well, Anakin, I have been around the galaxy, seen a great many things, and learned much. I would like to help you, if I can.”

Unable to help himself, Anakin laughs. “If you can alter the future, that would be a feat I’d pay to see.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m even supposed to be preventing. I just…saw her in pain. Unspeakable pain.” His voice cracks as he lets the onslaught of emotional memory wash over him again. He’s only pretending to drown, he reminds himself anxiously. Just pretending.

“I don’t know anything about altering things that may come to pass. But have heard stories about…saving lives.” The Chancellor turns his piercing gaze on Anakin, temptation dripping from his words. “There have been interesting apologues on the subject, and as I consider myself a very well rounded man-“ he pauses, gesturing to the veritable museum of ancient artifacts and art around them on the walls and shelves. “- I have done my best to study any and all remotely intriguing concepts.”

“That sounds like fantasy. Stopping people from dying.”

Just because he’s done it before, once, just once, doesn’t make it any less a fantasy.

“Well,” Palpatine shrugs. “It is a parable at best. The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise.”

True confusion overcomes Anakin then, a palpable feeling in the Force.

“Darth Plagueis? Is that some sort of a name?”

A smile – really more a leer – parts the Chancellor’s lips. “Oh yes. ‘Darth’. A title granted to great students of the Force. I’m sure you’re familiar at least a little with the Force?” 

“I don’t really know anything scholarly like that, but I’ve heard of the Force. Jedi use it.” Anakin pushes back. “I may be the husband of a Senator, but I’m really not all that…um. Historically educated.”

“Well!” The Chancellor lays a hand on his back, drawing him towards a painting. “Let me do a little bit of teaching then. There is always time to learn. Have no shame at your lack of knowledge, my boy. You are at no disadvantage. Not truly. To know more of life is to have wisdom. So many who claim an  _ education _ as you put it, have only intellect, and no true wisdom. And that is their failure.”

A younger version of himself might have found the statement empowering. Anakin sees it for what it is, but keeps quiet, waiting, listening.

“Darth Plagueis was a Force adept so powerful and so wise that he could use the Force to influence the creation of life. He had such knowledge that he could even keep the ones he cared about from dying. The Force is…misunderstood by most of the lay masses. Tell me, my boy, what do you believe the Force is?”

The question throws him. Astounds him almost, leaving Anakin at loss for words. “I guess it’s some power field? Something that can’t be seen, but which certain persons can feel. On Naboo, some people I worked with thought the Jedi were wizards of a sort.”

“Yes. Very good. I know that there are many who think that way. Using the Force is a pathway to many abilities considered to be…unnatural. But Plagueis, he became so powerful, well, the only thing he was afraid of was losing his power.”

“Naturally.” This, Anakin understands. He understands it too well.

“Eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his apprentice everything he knew, then his apprentice killed him in his sleep. It’s ironic he could save others from death, but not himself.”

Anakin shakes his head. Throws caution to the wind. “I don’t care about my own death. I only care about Padmé.”

“Yes, yes I suppose most young men with pretty young wives would agree with you.” Despite the seriousness of the topic, the Chancellor speaks with almost a degree of levity to his voice. “You are not alone, Anakin. You are not alone.”

_ No, _ he thinks sourly, as he leaves the Chancellery, contemplating the unwanted bond instigated by the Sith.  _ I’m not. _

“Anakin! Did you hear the news?” Padmé calls to him, distraught, as he enters their apartments. “Obi-Wan has been called back from Tythe! Dooku slipped away, again, but, I did hear that they think they’ve picked up Grievous’ trail.”

“Well at least Obi-Wan is safe.” Removing his coat, Anakin flops it over the back of the settee. “Any other news?” When he looks up, Padmé is standing before him on tip-toes, expectantly waiting, a sparkle in her eye not dimmed by the trying events of recent weeks, nor her long, fruitless hours of toil at the Senate. “What is it?”

“It’s our first day home before dinner.” Holding him by the forearms, she pushes up on tip-toes to press a kiss to his lips. “Did you forget?”

Anakin blinks. Does some quick referencing in his memory.

“Remember, a couple weeks back, when we talked about celebrating your birthday, first chance we got?”

In truth, it completely slipped his mind. He’s been twenty three for several weeks now; really, he doesn’t feel much different. The only thing special that had happened was that he received a holo from his mom, newly relocated to Naboo, asking him to come home at the first opportunity available, since she missed him so much.

Padmé shakes her head. “We need a break. Both of us… _ all _ of us. What do you think? What would you like to do?”

At first Anakin hesitates. He’s meant to debrief her on any meeting as soon as possible, and while he knows that she’ll be cross later when he tells her, she’s right. They need a break. And the mere consideration of talking more about Palpatine, of wasting an opportunity to relax that they’re both –  _ all _ – in desperate need of is abhorrent to him. There will be time later. Maybe tomorrow morning…

“Maybe we could…go out somewhere?” He’s not in the mood to cook, and he’s certainly not going to let Padmé try; she’d burn up the kitchen boiling water.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Anakin hasn’t bothered getting to know the upper echelons’ party district of Coruscant all that well. Really, he knows two districts best, that being the Senate and the Industrial Quarter. So he lets Padmé pick where they go. Predictably, she knows him well enough to choose something that he likes. Seafood dishes have fascinated him ever since leaving Tatooine and he’s tried just about anything he could get his hands on. And with the addition of particularly spicy options, he’s readily satisfied by just about anything available.

_ Zothique _ is not the  _ Skysitter _ , thank goodness, but it’s not exactly a cheap place and money still freaks Anakin out a bit, even though he’s certainly far from destitute, the addition of Padmé’s funds aside. They settle in, the room perfunctorily dim with a golden glow. Richly embroidered valances in burnt umber and sunset orange provide a little extra privacy in their little corner booth.

Their aimless chatter is almost difficult in the wake of so many weeks of non-stop work. It seems wrong to talk of nothing when so much of  _ something _ is happening all around them, but Anakin tries to remind himself that this is a moment’s celebration, and he deserves it.

When the waiter comes by with the beverage menu, Anakin turns it down mostly out of habit. Padmé’s ‘no thank you’, is a surprise at first, Anakin almost forgetting that she can’t, though she usually does indulge in something.

They order, and are left back to their rather unpracticed dinner conversation when Anakin notices Padmé glancing at a gentleman, dressed in maroon and plum, sitting across the way from them. He’s well built, handsome even, looking politely disinterested at the waiter speaking with him.

“Who is that?”

“Oh, I’ve seen him in the holonews,” Padmé whispers. “Sarcev Quest. Some rich playboy. Just thought I was losing my mind for a moment. Anyways, let's talk about our…plans.”

Anakin instantly knows what she means. They’ve been discussing their eventual and inevitable return to Naboo, where Padmé hopes to be when she gives birth, about the home they’ll make there, the mountainous region of her own childhood home, the designs for which Ruwee has almost completed. Though they refrain from outright discussing the baby’s future accommodations, they do talk a little bit about the décor, most of which interests Padmé far more than Anakin. He’s simply happy if she’s happy, but he does like yellow for the easterly facing room, the one which will belong to their child. Bright and warm, like his mother’s arms will be. That’s what Anakin wants for their child, more than anything else. A home, a family.

A good, full life, without war or torment. Without sadness.

He knows it's not possible, that their child will shed tears and blood in variable measure as she grows, – this first one is a girl, he’s positive of it – but those things will be only of the happy and anticipated kind. Scraped knees, falling from trees, saying goodbye to a beloved pet.

He wants that almost as much as he wants the war to end.

Above all, his child will know freedom. Free to do such silly childhood things.

First, Anakin thinks, he needs to learn to climb some trees himself. It’s a silly notion to have halfway through the Mon Calamari dish he’s ordered, but in the middle of Padmé’s tirade about the floral and shrubbery options for their garden, Anakin can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I just imagined myself trying to climb a tree. I’ve never done it you know. No trees on Tatooine.”

“Well I’ll have to teach you, then.”

Instantly, Anakin’s blood runs cold. Of course, she doesn’t know how similar she sounds to Palpatine, but Anakin is rudely reminded anyways. Thankfully, Padmé doesn’t seem to notice, too charmed by the idea of teaching him the appropriate way not only to climb said tree, but to scout for one of proper climbing capacity.

She’s glowing. Lately, they’ve both gone pale, but it’s not the flush of her cheeks or lack thereof that Anakin sees. No, it’s the warmth of her expression, the timber of her laugh, the brightness in her eyes. The luminosity of her very heart.

“Have I told you lately how in love I am with you?”

Almost coyly, Padmé bites her lip, setting down the crystal flute of water. “You somehow manage to tell me every day, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying hearing it a little more often.”

“I love you. I love you the galaxy over, Angel. You’re so full of light, so beautiful. So kind, so joyful. I don’t know how you do it in the middle of all this, but don’t ever lose it, my love.”

Padmé shakes her head, drops her gaze to her lap, before flickering back up at him. “It’s only because I’m so in love.”

Smirking, actually  _ blushing _ – and he feels young again. He hasn’t felt young in a year, maybe more! – he keeps his mouth shut. There’s probably some terrible, cheesy line in there somewhere, one that Padmé would sooner make fun of him for than reciprocate, but whatever it is, he manages somehow, to hold it back. His declarations of adoration have never ceased to amuse her.

Things go more naturally after that, as together they cast off the shadows for a time. And even though Anakin knows that they’re still nipping at his heels as he leads her back to the speeder after they’ve enjoyed a decadent dessert, he reminds himself that this, being beside her, laughing with her, holding her hand, seeing her smiling face, exchanging a knowing look about the joy that swells within her a little more every day – these are happy moments.

The happiest of his life. And at least for now, he’s not going to worry about anything else.

Not the shadows.

Not the Force.

Not Darth Sidious.

And certainly, not the necrotic bond festering between them in the Force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone can sincerely - without looking anything up online - tell me what I've just foreshadowed, I will be so exceptionally pleased.
> 
> Last night, I actually did my first legitimate planning for this story. I sat down and mapped out the basic events that yet need to occur and I'm almost positive that there's just two chapters left. Maybe three. Maybe.


	27. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final trial begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. 
> 
> I'm not sure what made me more tense. Bad news about my insurance, or writing this chapter.  
> Seriously, I think my pulse was racing so hard my heart might have jumped out of my chest.

Whenever Obi-Wan is back on planet, Anakin feels as though the storm breaking above them grows a little less bleak. There’s something purely warm and good about the Jedi Master. Though he is vastly different from Qui-Gon Jinn, Anakin wonders if, when Obi-Wan’s Master passed into the Force, he didn’t cement a little of his own goodness there, that Kenobi might be able to weather every trial that has passed his way.

Anakin hopes against hope that it is so.

He’s spent the morning with Padmé discussing the thinly veiled offer that Palpatine had made him the day before – and he was right that she’d be irate with him over it, though less so than she could have been, all things considered. Right now, he thinks she’s too run down to care. – and is finally meeting with Kenobi at a diner in CoCo Town of all places, which the Jedi must frequently, because he’s called fondly by name upon entering, and a rather large and crushing hug is bestowed upon him by the surly Besalisk proprietor. Obi-Wan, in a muffled and squished sounding tone, dubs the restaurateur ‘Dex’.

“It’s good to see you, Obi-Wan. Mighty dangerous galaxy out there lately. Never quite sure if you’re going to come back.”

“Ah, Dex, I have to keep coming back, don’t I? You’ve the best Ardees in the Core.”

“That’s my Obi-Wan. Always after that Jawa Juice,” the Besalisk laughs, throatily, a hardy, good natured sound. 

“Ah, where are my manners. Dex, this is my good friend, Anakin Skywalker.”

Surprised, Anakin quirks a brow, but hasn’t the time to catalogue the fact that Obi-Wan has decided that they’re good friends before he’s shaking Dex’s mammoth hand and being offered drinks on the house.

Obi-Wan takes a seat in the first booth, conveniently starting straight at the door, which is really where Anakin would prefer to sit, but he slides in across from Obi-Wan anyways.

“Your friend is right, Obi-Wan. Padmé’s been especially worried about you. We heard about Tythe.”

Stroking his beard in that absent-nervous tick of his, Obi-Wan nods. “Yes. Tythe. And before that, Cato Neimoidia. Which you probably  _ didn’t _ hear about. At least not yet. But yes, Dooku. I’m sorry to say that I’m actually meant to be leaving again, after this. Grievous has been tracked to Utapau. If we get him, we’re one step closer to ending this war. And Dooku will not be far behind him. No, there is no rest for the wicked and twice less for the just.”

“I hadn’t heard about that, no. But Dooku, yes. Grievous is no walk in the park from what I’ve heard. Be careful.”

Obi-Wan grins the grin of a soldier, who has too long faced the probability of an eventual early demise. “I shall try my best. Whatever happens, I suppose your wife will keep you on the up and up.”

Grimly, Anakin shrugs. “And sometimes vice versa. But right now it's my turn.”

“Oh?” Suddenly, Obi-Wan goes rigid; Anakin can feel him searching the area through the Force. Just in case. “There are ears everywhere, Anakin.”

“Yes, I know. There have been…developments.”

“I gathered as much.”

“The sort liable to make you nervous, I’d imagine.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. “If they’ve managed to make you nervous, well then, it must be something truly concerning.”

It’s a bit of an inside joke. Anakin’s grateful that he’s masked it so artfully, but before Obi-Wan left the last time, when he’d said something about Anakin’s reckless abandon in the saber training salles, Anakin had thrown back with the nervous comment. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise him so much that Obi-Wan considers them close.

“I’ve been…”  _ How to phrase it, how to phrase it… _ “Offered an opportunity.”

A thoughtful hum is all Obi-Wan provides in return as the waitress, Hermione, Anakin thinks he heard Dex say, brings over two Ardees. Anakin almost pushes his across to Obi-Wan, then hesitates before lifting it to his lips.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen. “Oh well. That bad, eh?”

“Yes.” Anakin grimaces at the burn of the strong drink. “That bad.”

“Well. Have you…mentioned this to anyone else?”

“Yes.”

“The Old Folks’ Home?”

It’s a chore not to laugh childishly at the codename for the Jedi Council. “Yes. And Padmé.”

“Well. When we’re done here, I suppose I’ll consent to your terrifying piloting skills and we can talk more about it on our way to-“

“The Senate, for me. I have a meeting.”

Another in as many days. It makes Anakin’s skin crawl.

They finish their drinks in relative silence after that, before piling back into Anakin’s speeder.

“So, what is it then?” Obi-Wan practically shouts over the buffeting wind.

“Well, the Council only knows part of it. He’s made a mental bond with me. Which is terrifying. But he’s been asking me how I’m sleeping lately. And well, that’s how I found out about the bond. Nightmares. About Padmé. So when he asked, I had to tell him the truth – I haven’t really slept well in a week? Week in a half maybe? Since they began. Of course, he asked what they’re about, and I just…kept answering. So he tells me this story about a guy who could use the Force. Named ‘Darth Plagueis’.”

Whatever gasp Obi-Wan makes is lost to the drive noise, but Anakin feels it in the Force.

“Heard of him?”

“No.”

“Well, apparently he could keep people from dying. He offered to-to  _ help _ me.”

There’s a subtle constricting of Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force, like a curling fist.

“I played dumb. I guess it’s a good thing I am mostly ignorant about all this scholarly stuff, or he might’ve called me out on it. He’s playing it real close though. He’s not sure how knowledgeable about the Force. About my ability with it. And I’m pretty sure he thinks that I don’t know the important bits. Well, the important bits to me anyways.”

“The prophecy.”

“Yeah.”

The Rotunda grows larger and larger, faster and faster, speeding up on them like an asteroid on a collision course. A sense of doom suffuses him.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan mutters.

_ Me too, _ Anakin thinks.  _ Me too. _

Before he and Obi-Wan part, the Jedi lays a hand on his shoulder. “You are strong and wise, Anakin. You are a good man. Against that, there is no power in the galaxy, nigh on the universe, which can strike you down. The Force will be with you. Always.”

Before heading down to the Chancellery, Anakin checks in with Padmé’s office. She’s in a meeting, of course. Convenient that she’s always in a meeting when the Chancellor wants to see him. He dawdles for some time in her office, leaving her a little note for later, stalling really. Everything about this day is antsy. Like there are bugs crawling around under his skin. It’s unsettling, to say the least. At one point, he notes Obi-Wan leave the system, and his spirits fall even further. Such a temporary reprieve.

Eventually, he leaves word with one of his wife’s aides and then heads below. The Red Guards and Sly Moore are there, like always. If he didn’t know any better, Anakin would almost think that he’s reliving the same moments every time he passes through.

The Umbaran woman watches him just as closely as ever, and he gives her a curt, perfunctory smile before heading in.

The first thing he notices is that the Chancellor isn’t there.

He’s alone in the space. Not even the usual red guard duo that stands to either side of the inner entryway is present. Unwilling to risk reaching out with the Force, Anakin takes a step further inside and finds that the Chancellor is at the other end of the room, admiring a velveteen painting, something abstract and unidentifiable, unique in its use of chiaroscuro. The figure depicted is almost unreal. So much so that Anakin almost doesn’t notice it's there.

“Ah, welcome! I called for you as soon as I heard!” The Chancellor says, a note of false worry creeping into his tone.

“Heard what? I’m sorry Chancellor, I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is something wrong?”

The Chancellor blinks. “I admit, I’m most confused.”

“You’re confused!” Anakin takes a step back. It’s a game. Whatever it is, it’s a game, and he’s being played with. A million thoughts run through his head, and he feels his heart beat faster for the wary anticipation of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Speak plainly!” A moment’s pause. “Please!” 

“Well, it’s no wonder you were so worried about that dream you had-“

_ Padmé Padmé Padmé what’s wrong Padmé Padmé something’s wrong Padmé oh Force Pa- _

“When I heard the news, well it all made sense. I’m not sure if I ought to be congratulating you, or comforting you, my boy.”

Instantly, Anakin blanches.

“What news.”

“Why, that you’re to be a father, of course. Unless you and the dear Senator didn’t in fact make such an announcement and the rumour mill is simply at it again, in which case I  _ do _ apologize, but well, I simply couldn’t ignore the possibility!”

With ever thud of his heart, Anakin hears the words over and over again:

_ you’re to be a father. _

The Sith Lord knows.

The Sith Lord knows.

It’s quite poetic really. On one hand, if Anakin were truly ignorant of the dark power conspiring against him, he would view the information as though from a close friend and powerful confidant, someone who could help him. Someone on his side. On the other, Anakin, knowledgeable of the truth, recognizes the power play for what it is.

Regardless of which case the Sith believes to be the truth, he’s thoroughly stacked the sabacc deck against Anakin. Above all else, he wants to fly at the man. It takes the last shred of his self-control not to. The Force should be screaming at him, but it is deadly silent, and his heart jumps into his throat. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. They’d never prepared for this. Thought it too far off to be an immediate concern.

Now it is too late, and the playbook in Anakin’s mind is blank.

“Sit down, Anakin. You’re shaking. I’ll take it that this was not a formal announcement then, as I had been told.”

_Lies._ _All lies._

Venom floods Anakin’s brain, a deluge of adrenaline and dread mixed into a deadly cocktail. The last desperate shred of his untainted self, floundering in the torrent, wishes that Obi-Wan were not off planet.

Even as all this flies through his head, Anakin takes the proffered seat, numb.

“Your wife is, of course, a very public figure. All eyes are on her all the time in the holomedia. Someone was bound to notice eventually. Such a shame that it couldn’t have come out under better, more… controlled circumstances. Especially with the upstroke of Separatist activity so close to the Core. You  _ know _ how much Nute Gunray despises her. That must be it, Anakin. The source of your dream. The purpose.”

_ Lies lies lies lies lies lies. _

It’s a chant, a drum, his own pulse.

“Well, we Naboo look out for our own. She will be afforded the best of protections, Anakin. I know what you said about your dreams, but perhaps…perhaps it can be avoided. Surely not  _ everything _ you’ve seen has come to pass.”

He’s almost not listening anymore. The words echo, oil-slick drip from the walls of his mind, hollow and muted. Indecipherable. The Chancellor is talking. Anakin looks at him, a black silhouette against the bright grey light streaming into the office. But no longer is Anakin blind. The truth is right there before him. Only the light can expose the darkness for what it is.

Only the light shows the Sith in his truest, shadowed form.

Still, no matter how long he’s lived with this knowledge, Anakin is dumbfounded by it. How had he not seen it? How was it not evident even longer ago?

The Chancellor’s smile is a grey gash on his pale, kindly face, the gruesome tear in his perfect mask, like something from a joke shop, or the discarded remains of an unlucky slave, worn over the darkness to give it form.

Anakin shivers.

_ He’s powerful. _

Pulse spiking, Anakin averts his gaze. There, in the window, the void Spectre watches him. His smile is so akin to Palpatine’s that Anakin feels sick.

Such darkness lives inside him. Wicked and evil. Such darkness, tugging at the reins.

_ He wants to help you. The dream doesn’t matter. Your secret is exposed. Your wife and child are in danger. He’s useful. He has knowledge. He has power. _

_ Doesn’t matter. _

_ Doesn’t it? _

_ He’s evil. He’s dark. _

_ Are we so different? _

_ I’ve already saved someone from death. I don’t need him. _

It’s too cold. Much too cold.

“Anakin, are you hearing me? You’re frightfully pale. Perhaps you should go see the Senator, make sure that she’s alright.”

“Padmé is in a meeting,” Anakin hears himself say.

“Oh, well, why don’t you-“

Again he floats away.

Against his thigh, beneath the long coat that he put on that morning, Anakin can feel the steady weight of his lightsaber hilt. His hand itches. It closes into a fist in reaction.

“How did you find out?” he asks, out of the blue, uncaring that he’s cut the man off.

For the first time, he notices that Palpatine is watching him with an unnervingly direct stare.

“I was informed by my aides.” The airiness of the comment is jarring. “It was on the holonews this morning, apparently. When I don’t have the time to watch myself, I have them round up the most pertinent information. Forgive my assumption that it was an announcement. My first thought was to give my congratulations. Two such fine people as yourself could only produce a most  _ worthy  _ child.”

Suddenly, it’s as though every cell in his body is vibrating. It may still be colder than Ilum in the Chancellor’s office, but Anakin is burning up inside.

“Padmé will be fine. I’m not worried about her.”

“But your dream, Anakin…” The Sith’s protest is more careful than forceful. “It  _ will _ come true. Do you  _ want _ your wife to  _ suffer?  _ Your child to _ die? _ ”

If the icy air could steam against his internal heat, Anakin thinks that it would. He’s aflame. Brilliant and bright.

And all it would take to show it, is to pull aside the cloak of the Force. Just an inch would be enough to show his hand, to send them plummeting over the edge of the precipice.

_ NO! ANAKIN! NO! _

Qui-Gon’s voice in his head is drowned out by something else entirely. Something that has no language, no visage, no form. All the same Anakin recognizes it. Can feel his oneness with it.

Pushing. Pulsing.

Pressing.

Encouraging.

“Join me, Anakin.” Sidious presses on. “Let me help you find the knowledge to save your wife and child from the certain death you’ve predicted. Only  _ together _ can we make the galaxy  _ safe _ for them. Only you and I  _ together _ can accomplish this. There are other stories, Anakin. Of a being so powerful, so perfect, that they would be  _ free _ of  _ all limits _ . Even death. I hesitate to think what the Jedi might not do to get their hands on the child of such an individual.”

Breath stalls in Anakin’s chest.

His eyes focus, glance up.

Sidious leers down upon him, the distorted image of twisted benevolence.

Waiting.

Predatory.

“We can end this war, Anakin. Think of what we might accomplish.”

_ Padmé, hands scrabbling at her neck, gasping for breath, swollen with child- _

This is the moment.

Anakin tears the cloak aside. 


	28. Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Penultimate Moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there is ONE left after this. This is about half as long because I can't resist a good cliffhanger. Also, wow I hate writing battles.

In one fluid movement, Anakin pushes the chair back and stands, muscles tensed, waiting. Watching. A stalking Asharl panther in range of his prey.

Simultaneously, Sidious too, is revealed in all his dark luminescence, stands taller, his grandfatherly smile turned to a sneer.

“There you are,” he hisses. Even his voice is different. “So wild. Un _tamed_ .“ The sneer curls downward. “ _Bright.”_ The word is spat like poison in his disdain. “So confident in your own superiority.”

“You would _tame_ me then?” It feels good to be free from the shelter, unconstrained by his shield. So too has Sidious reveal himself. Where once the Force was quiet here, stifled, it now thrums with energy with life and death, light and dark. The air crackles with the invisible currents of power, swirling around them.

“A tame animal is a pathetic shade of its true nature and possibility.”

“Then it’s a very good thing I’m not tame.”

Though neither of them move, Anakin can feel the building tension. Peace is banished within these chambers. There is only the struggle that will inevitably come to pass. From where it hangs on his belt, Anakin’s lightsaber is summoned to his hand. . The snap-hiss of his weapon, the gleaming streak as he swings it in an arc, faster than a single breath, faster than a blink, cutting the air, down, down to flesh and blood and bone and-

Blood red, a second blade bursts into existence, faster than Anakin can follow, and clashes molten against his pure blue.

Instinct takes over, guiding steps as blades whirl and strike, spitting sparks and stray energy off of each other. The Sith Lord is vicious, more vicious than anyone Anakin has ever faced, but there is no room for woeful doubt in his abilities and regret that there hadn’t been more time and opportunity to train. There is no room for thought, only action and reaction, stepping, twirling, slashing, blocking.

Sidious cackles and hisses, lunging and parrying, a wild look in his sickly yellow eyes, pushing Anakin back as they move, competing partners in a deadly dance. Gleeful, Sidious forces him back and back further and further. A shelf collapses as Anakin’s back collides with it and he sidesteps the falling pottery, vaulting himself in a flip back behind to regain his focus. He’s breathing heavily already, but Sidious stands almost casually, eyeing Anakin.

“So quick to tire. So untested. Untrained. The Jedi from whom you sought guidance have been _woeful_ in their attempts. So much raw, untapped power. You are half formed, Skywalker. A work of art left incomplete. With my training, you _will_ become what you are meant to be. Come! Cut your teeth!” The Sith goads, chuckling again.

Teeth bared, Anakin rushes him headlong, falling into the practiced forms of his katas, overhead opening strike bearing down. It’s easily parried away. Still, the Sith laughs, and it sears in Anakin.

“You. Are. Powerless. Against me!”

Their blades are a flurry of indistinguishable light.

“I am not powerless!”

The surge within him is like nothing he’s ever felt. Without direct thought, his feet move faster, lighter, his saber swings more easily with redoubled effort, though his muscles tremble under the strain. Every move of the Sith by comparison is effortless, deadly quick.

Deep within, where he cannot dare to look lest he find himself instantly cut down, Anakin knows that he’s being toyed with.

He’s never been a match for the Sith.

_Untested._

_Untrained._

_Half formed._

_Incomplete._

_Powerless._

The jibes coalesce into a swirling ball of rage, – the Spectre’s eyes alight with glee – and he lets out a bellowing yell, shattering the glass of every curio in the room, and sending the Sith flying back into his desk with a crack. Flames lick inside of Anakin, rising higher and higher as he steps towards Sidious whose face contorted in a snarl of fury, teeth gnashing.

The Sith lunges, propelled unnaturally forward, blade at the ready. Anakin side steps, half a second too slow. There is a brief, muted burst of pain as the sword cuts through the metal of his prosthetic, severing through housing, circuitry and synthnerve integrations like butter, the force behind it sending him prone, sprawling over the steps and the saber clutched in his hand falls to the ground, blade retracting.

Anakin scrambles back as Sidious advances, glowing ruby blade held aloft, reaching out with the Force to call his own saber back to him. Just as that crimson line of death cuts the field of his vision, the hilt finds his hand, igniting to parry off the onslaught. The angle has him at a disadvantage, the one handed attempt at fending off the attack weakening by the second.

 _You’ll die without me._ The darkness batters against its cage. _Finish what you started! Unleash me! Unchain me, or perish!_

Gritting his teeth, Anakin draws on the Force and pushes back, throwing Sidious off balance long enough to scramble to his feet.

_He’ll slaughter you like the animal you are to him._

“I. Am not. Powerless.”

He brings the blade back up at the ready. Recovered, Sidious picks his way down the steps, around the debris which cascaded from his desk, papers, shattered statuettes. “Give in to your hate! Use it! Achieve your potential and prove yourself worthy of my teachings! Only then will you be able to keep your _family_ safe from harm.”

Involuntarily, the vision cuts through the battle haze, Padmé calling his name, voice timorous with agony.

He barely comes out of it in time to deflect the attack.

The battle does not wait for Anakin to be ready to recommence. Nothing is spared, nothing is without its temporary use. Across furniture, through a cloud of papers drawn through the Force to fly from their orderly shelves, baubles and paintings slashed in two, gashes and fused permanently into the walls. Alarms begin to blare after that, but they are only another player in the battlefield to be overcome. Chairs topple, fly across the room, blades still occasionally clash.

But one thing remains.

The Sith has the upper hand and defense has _never_ been a place Anakin likes to be. Gathering up everything left to him, Anakin rushes the Sith, ready with a slash that finds only thin air. The only thing left is a blur, disappearing over him, and the long, protracted vibrance of a the flaming red blade as it arcs over his head and-

Anakin barely registers what’s about to happen before it’s already over. His half second of surprise bends him backward just enough that the Sith’s sabre doesn’t carve his head in two. But it’s not enough. The white hot plasma sears, smoking, against his right eye, the tip skimming upward, tracing a thin line over his forehead.

Momentum carries him backwards, sending him hard to the ground. A second quick flick of the Sith’s blade cuts through the air, shearing his weapon’s hilt in half. It rolls away in two sparking pieces. Too stunned to move, to even register pain, Anakin simply lays there, breathing raggedly as the Sith Lord circles above him, a vulture regarding fresh carrion, face contorted hatefully. Anakin is struck immobile before the gleam of that ruby sabre. And then, it winks out.

“My power is exponential! Do you not see, young Skywalker? Kneel before me now. Take your place as my apprentice, and you can still _save the galaxy.”_

Anakin’s vision is spotty, half blinded by the vibrant light of the saber, but he thinks he can see the swirling darkness as it halos the Sith Lord.

“Join me.”

The storm is upon him, bearing down relentless, but inside, deep, deep inside, he can still hear the softly whispering thrill of intention.

_B a l a n e . . ._

He understands now.

Sidious must as well, because he bares his teeth like fangs at Anakin’s apathetic non-response. “You are _pathetic_. But your child will be a gift unlooked for. And I do not need you in order to take your child. So be it.”

With hands outstretched, fingers rigid, Sidious calls lightning to his fingertips.

All the world is wicked laughter. All the world is pain.

Inside and out, Anakin is burning, burning. Lightning wracks his body, wraps and clings to his bones, skitters over his flesh. His heart skips a beat. Someone is screaming. (It’s him.) Everything is distant, indistinct.

Abruptly, it stops. Ozone and charged flesh cloy the air.

“And now, young Skywalker.” The shadow falls over him. “You will die.”

Voltaic, the pain surges back into being, mercilessly unrelenting.

The twin stars within him ignite with the charge, siphon inwards, and then burst, supernova, explode. He’s standing. When did he stand? How? He doesn’t know. From his own mouth, words issue forth, but his ears are ringing. Is he speaking? He doesn’t know.

Power thrums through him. The lightning strikes, but does not prevail. Instead, it absorbs into him, joining the pounding current.

The last thing Anakin sees is the Sith Lord’s eyes widen in surprise. And fear.

The last thing Anakin feels is fire.

Liquid light, like magma, streams through Anakin’s veins, from his eyes, from his mouth, hands, chest.

A silent scream on a contorted face.

Peace.

Balance. 

Darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyger Tyger, burning bright,  
> In the forests of the night;  
> What immortal hand or eye,  
> Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
> 
> In what distant deeps or skies.  
> Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
> On what wings dare he aspire?  
> What the hand, dare seize the fire?
> 
> And what shoulder, & what art,  
> Could twist the sinews of thy heart?  
> And when thy heart began to beat,  
> What dread hand? & what dread feet?
> 
> What the hammer? what the chain,  
> In what furnace was thy brain?  
> What the anvil? what dread grasp,  
> Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
> 
> When the stars threw down their spears  
> And water'd heaven with their tears:  
> Did he smile his work to see?  
> Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
> 
> Tyger Tyger burning bright,  
> In the forests of the night:  
> What immortal hand or eye,  
> Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


	29. Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end, there is, always, light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all of you, my faithful readers, kudosers, bookmarkers, and commenters for accompanying me on this incredible journey. 29 chapters, 227 pages and some 104.5k in 31 days. While I've written something of comparable length before, I never knew that I could sustain that same capability for days on end. I am, frankly, exhausted, but also grateful for this experience. Thank you all for sharing it with me. I hope that, in this most trying time, my story has been able to provide you with at least a short time of escape. I hope this conclusion satisfies.
> 
> May The Force Be With You. Always. 
> 
> -Steelneena

Light.

Light is warmth. It surrounds all. Envelopes and embraces, arms open wide, ready to melt the coldness of grief, sorrow and pain. It is a blanket offered to a shivering child, the candle for numb hands to surround.

Light is strength. The ability to hold another. The ability to persevere. To act as shelter to those who have none, a barrier against powers that seek to tear down and destroy, leaving only cataclysm in their wake.

Light is love. The tender press of a kiss. The grip of a beloved’s hand. The softness of voice in tone, whispering of good dreams, sweet things, sunbeams on sparkling waters while bodies hold close, become as one.

Light is hope. The dawn of a new day. The birth of a child. The cry of a freed slave. The clatter as millions of weapons fall to the ground and enemies put aside their bloodlust in search of peace, prosperity, harmony.

Light is all these things.

The Force is all these things.

Darkness is the cold. Cold seeps the life’s glow away when the seasons change, bites flesh, gnaws on goodwill.

Darkness is enervation. For every seductive power it promises, it instead builds the links of its chain.

Darkness is hatred. It pushes out altruism, and concern, is harsh with innocence, cares not for affection.

Darkness is despair. Ceaselessly, it leeches away at faith, poisons optimism, slays dreams the moment they are born.

Within the Force, these things also exist.

They must, for the Force is the balance of all things.

There is no life without death, no joy without sorrow. Meaning ceases when the dark twins of all are stripped away.

Light and Dark are potential. Light and Dark are possibility.

Light and Dark _are_.

The Force _is._

At first, there is only darkness. Then, there is pain. The dull, throbbing sort of agony that lingers, the kind that’s worse than the original injury because it doesn’t stop hurting when the attack is over. Everything aches. Involuntarily, he twitches. Again, muscles taut. Abruptly, it stops, but the pain remains. It’s as though his skin is stretched too thin.

With effort, he opens his eyes, blinking himself into full consciousness. It’s a room. Well, the left half of a room. The right is obscured. He closes his eyes again. Opens. No difference. There’s a dull throb over the right eye and the brief glimpse of memory returns to him, the bright ruby blade as it screamed towards him, catching at his cheekbone and ripping upwards.

He doesn’t try closing and opening his eyes again. Instead, he turns his head. Slowly. The rest of the room reveals itself. It’s a medicenter of some kind. The sickly sweet smell of bacta, less potent than he remembers, manifests to his senses. He can taste it too, now that he’s thinking about it. Machines beep and blink in routine fashion.

With a little more effort, he continues to turn his head. A form is slumped in the chair. Turns a little further so that his sight will clear the hazy obstruction of his blind eye.

Tousled chestnut curls frame the tear streaked porcelain face. It’s familiar. Even the sight fills his heart fit to burst. Her hand rests on the gentle roundness of her stomach.

Her smile glows bright in his memory.

“Pa’m’.”

Is this his voice?

Yes. Yes, he remembers his voice. It’s weak, but the same.

“Padmé,” he tries again.

A soft sound leaves her as she shifts, blinks, sighs.

“Padmé.”

Her eyes fly open.

“Anakin!?”

Is that his name?

Yes. Yes, he can hear so many warm, familiar voices murmuring it with fondness.

She sits up rather hurriedly, reaching towards him. The balm of her touch is lost to him, her hand resting on the wreckage of his ruined cybernetic. “Anakin, can you hear me?”

“Padmé.” Saying her name is better than anything else in the world. Her name on his lips makes him feel invincible. “C’n hear.”

“Good, that’s good.” Tears stream down her cheeks. He can taste them in the gentle kiss she presses to the corner of his lips. “I’m going to get the healer, Ani. You’re in the Jedi Temple. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

The attempt to stop her falls flat. He cannot move his right arm because it’s not there, and he knows that, but it is so easy to forget. Something happened. Something important. Immense. Something…

His train of thought derails, muscles tensing erratically again. As quickly as it began, it ceases, and he flounders to find his thoughts.

 _Anakin_.

“Anakin,” he says firmly.

He is Anakin.

A stern, blue skinned Twi’lek Jedi enters the room with Padmé, who rushes to his side.

“Goodmorning Skywalker. I was beginning to think you’d require assistance in leaving the healing trance. I am Jedi Master Vokara Che. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to move anymore.”

“W-what hap’?“

“Or speak until I require you to.”

Cowed, Anakin does as she asks, letting her go about her work. He has eyes only for Padmé.

_Wife. Love. Heart._

And the child.

Though he feels impotent, his spirit soars at the thought.

“Alright, Skywalker. Look at me. What’s your mother’s name?”

_Mother. Comfort. Safety. Support. Shelter. Love._

“Shmi.”

“Good, that’s good. How old are you?”

For a moment, he wrinkles his nose, chasing the elusive information. Then… “Twenty-three.” Before she can ask him another mundane question, he tests his left hand, lifting it shakily and points. “Padmé. Beloved. Wife.”

Master Healer Che chuckles. “Things aren’t so scrambled up there as we worried they might be, I see. You remember the important things.”

Yes. Yes, he does. He remembers love. But he’s tired. Exhausted, in fact. And safe. Falling asleep is easy in the security of that knowledge, and so he does so without delay.

“-es well, it was _reckless_.”

“He succeeded, didn’t he? And survived?”

“At the cost of his life, nearly, he did. One with the Living Force, he might have been, if quick to find him were we not.”

“Regardless, we cannot have expected less. The boy is only half trained. That he managed to do what he did proves the truth. He is the Son of the Suns. The Chosen One.”

“He has a life. A family, hobbies, a child on the way. He’s fulfilled his part. More than. We cannot ask anything more of him. And I refuse to be party to it if you do.”

“Party to what?” Anakin asks, opening his eyes and turning his head so that the source of the voices fall within his newly limited field of vision. He feels stronger than he did before. Three jedi are watching him closely. He remembers their faces and their names. His mind is clearer.

“Anakin! You’re awake! I’ll call for Master Che-“

“No, Obi-Wan. Stay.” Though he wants to sit, he doesn’t try it. Something about the consideration seems like a bad idea. “I killed the Sith, didn’t I?” Anakin doesn’t have to hear their answer, doesn’t even have to ask to know that it's true. But vocalizing it is another thing. “I don’t remember much.”

Mace Windu’s lips are a thin line. Yoda, the tips of whose green ears are all Anakin can see from his vantage point, harrumphs.

“You, did, Anakin.” The look in Obi-Wan’s eyes is almost sentimental. “You fulfilled the prophecy. You have brought balance to the Force.”

As best as he can, he shakes his head. “But I didn’t die.”

Stricken by the statement, Obi-Wan takes a step back. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“I was supposed to die. I chose the light. I embraced it.” He remembers how it seared, how it scorched him as it burst forth. “I am an imbalance.”

“The Force is clear now,” Windu says, expression unreadable. “You have done what you were meant to do. Anymore than that, we cannot say.”

“Want to die, did you? Hmm? Seek out the embrace of the Force?” Yoda asks, hopping up onto the chair that Padmé had last occupied.

“No, Teacher.”

“Then why complain do you? Alive, are you not? Question not the will of the Force. Alive, you are. So live, you must! Have people who need you, rely on you, you do.” He jabs a clawed finger in Anakin’s direction. “And people waiting for us to leave, there are. Go now, we will. Done speaking with you, we are not.” With that, Yoda hops back down from the chair and heads towards the door.

“Anakin-“ Obi-Wan starts to say, but Windu gives him a look and they both follow Yoda out of the room, Obi-Wan throwing a reluctant glance back over his shoulder.

Waiting for the aforementioned ‘others’, Anakin watches the doorway. The first to appear is the healer, Master Che, and following after her, the familiar form of Padmé. But just behind them…

“Mom!”

“Anakin!”

It’s clear how badly she wishes to rush to him, but she holds herself steady by Padmé’s side, potential momentum stalled by the authority of the Jedi Healer. Anakin wants to tell her that there is no greater authority than being his mother, but he doesn’t. Che checks a few things, but they’re beyond Anakin, so he doesn’t bother paying attention, instead watching the two people he loves most in the whole world, until the Healer indicates to them that the time is theirs and takes her quiet leave.

“Oh, Ani. Oh my little love!” His mother’s gaze rakes over him now, lingering, and tears shine in her eyes. Ever so gently, she takes his left hand in her own.

“I’m alright,” he says, trying to smile at her. It’s mostly true, at least. He’s alive, and that _is_ something.

“Anakin, what happened?” Padmé asks. “The security system is down. Senate security is working to get everything restored, but that means that we don’t know anything. Just you.”

“He knew about the baby. How?” That, Anakin recalls with intense clarity.

Padmé bites her lip. “It was Quest. Sarcev Quest. He must have figured it out while we were at dinner. He was detained trying to leave the system in a real hurry after sending a transmission to Pal- _Sidious._ But none of that matters now.”

“He wanted our baby. If he couldn't have me, he would have taken our child. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“And you didn’t, Ani.” His mom smooths a hand over his brow. “You saved everyone! You’re so brave, my son.” Regardless of the sincerity, his mother’s voice cracks, her gaze falling again.

Swallowing, Anakin looks down at himself. His arms and chest are bare, but the skin is marred by the spiraling, patterned fractals of Lichtenberg scars, the lightning marks splitting like veined branches over him.

Sharply, the memory of the Force lightning arching towards him returns with a stab of phantom pain.

That would explain the muscle spasms, then.

But mostly, his mother’s gaze lingers on his eye.

“Is it gone, or am I just blind?” He’s blunt. He has to be. For them.

Padmé bites her lip. “Not gone. Master Healer Che says that the cut is almost healed, but if you haven't got the vision back yet, it is likely that you won’t."

In his head, Anakin tallies the damages. Scarring that will fade, eventually, over time, a cybernetic arm that can be replaced, and one blind eye. If that’s all the price he’ll pay, it’s lower than he anticipated. “Probably makes me look like a dashing rogue,” he manages to joke.

Both his mother and his wife laugh in relief, each holding him close in turn, content to be in his presence.

Cradled safe within her mother, their child’s flame shines bright.

In time, he heals. The Force lightning left more than visible damage, but between dread bacta submersions and sessions with Healer Che’s Force crystal, Anakin recovers his strength, enough that he’s even able to fiddle with his new prosthetic. The stock models are _never_ up to par, but that’s alright. It gives him something to do in his convalescence. Mostly, he sits around with Mom, and Padmé when she’s able. Things are tenuous in the Republic now. The Chancellor is gone – the _Sith Master_ is gone – and Anakin discovers that Obi-Wan and his clone detachment took out Grievous while a second group of Jedi pursued and apprehended Count Dooku. Several key figures have disappeared, Sly Moore and Sate Pestage among them, but the truth about what occurred in the Chancellery is still confined in two places. One, the still non-functional security holos, and two, Anakin himself.

So far, no one but the Jedi and his family have seen him, but Padmé had more than insinuated that such reprieve will not last long.

Today, he senses Mace Windu alone outside the door to his room. Obi-Wan has been by more than once by himself, but Windu has only been in to see him the once.

They want to know what happened, he knows. Everyone does, except perhaps his mother. Even Padmé has asked him more than once, but he hasn’t told her.

What would he even say?

It appears that whether or not he’s ready, he’s about to find out.

“Skywalker.” Windu gives his customary greeting as he enters and sits. “We must discuss what has happened.”

“I know.”

“Can you tell us what you did? The Senator has explained the ‘why’. We, of the Jedi Council, are more interested in the ‘how’.”

And then, Mace Windu simply waits.

Anakin gets the feeling that Mace Windu can wait for a _very_ long time.

“I do remember now, I guess. I didn’t at first. I just…”he struggles to articulate. “…gathered the Force and then…turned it on him. I don’t know. It felt like... it felt like I was going to be incinerated. I was controlling it, but I wasn’t. I don’t know what happened. All I know is that it did.”

Mace Windu narrows his eyes. “Has anyone told you what killed Sidious?”

He shakes his head.

“Then let me _show_ you.” Windu holds out a portable hologenerator, and the gruesome image that springs forth in only partially blue-tinged colour, stills Anakin’s breath. Pure white eyes stare emptily back at him, skin cracked, drenched in blood. Unable to help it, Anakin looks away.

“Any more power and you’d have done the same thing to yourself, I think.” Anakin doesn’t need to be told as much to know that it’s true. Mace clicks the holo off. “As soon as the security systems are back online, we will no longer be able to stall the Senate investigation. Hopefully, they’ll clear you of any wrongdoing, and the Jedi as well. Then, things can begin to move forward again.”

“Yes. I understand.”

Mace leaves him then, alone with his thoughts and the unforgettable image of the destruction his power had wrought.

Now that he’s blind in one eye, Anakin is more thankful for the Force than ever. The only way to stand looking out the window over Coruscant is with his right side towards the doorway. Obi-Wan and most of the other Jedi are frustratingly quiet, unlike his mother and Padmé, whose gait has changed with her center of mass. But with the Force, he knows well ahead of time that Obi-Wan is standing in the doorway, watching him.

“What will you do?” The Jedi asks. “Now that it is all over. What will you do, Anakin?”

Anakin does not avert his gaze. The sunrise over Coruscant is nothing compared to a sunrise on Naboo, or even the binary one of Tatooine, but it is beautiful nonetheless.

“Go home. Be a husband and a father. Build starships.” All things he can do, now that he’s free. The silence is heightened by the subtle tension that Obi-Wan projects. “Once, my dream was to be a Jedi.” He doesn’t know why he says it, when Obi-Wan already knows. “I don’t think that would have been a good idea.” Days with nothing to do but think have brought him to the only conclusion. “I think I was never meant to be a Jedi.” However irrationally, Anakin cannot stop himself from crying for the child’s shattered dream.

“Oh, Anakin. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong.” There’s a catch in Kenobi’s throat, his voice thick. “You are a Jedi.”

When he finally gathers the courage to look at Obi-Wan, Anakin sees that he is weeping too.

“You are the best of us all.”

They share a set of small, wavering smiles as Obi-Wan strides forward to join him, and together, side by side, they stare out at the vastness of Coruscant, bustling with the business of life, beautiful and undaunted and free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. While it's always been my personal belief that Anakin has to die to fulfill the prophecy, I just couldn't stand losing him this time. He needs to be a dad really badly. I can't stress that enough. Dadakin is the best Anakin.
> 
> Some inspiration pulled from Rogue Planet in this chapter again. If any of you know what Anakin did to Ke Daiv, you'll understand.
> 
> Also credit to Matthew Stover for inspiring the Stoveresque elements present. Still the best Star Wars author of all time.


	30. TIMESTAMP: Everything That Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 19 years later, Luke and Leia are parting, and Father divulges a family secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt I'd write a timestamp to this eventually. Just sort of felt right. Unbeta'd.

Luke has never understood Leia. Well, technically, that’s not true, not true at all. Luke knows Leia and her heart better than she does, and vice versa, most of the time. What he doesn't understand is why she so consistently does the _opposite_ of what is in her heart, especially when she’s so driven by her righteous indignation a majority of the time. So, while Luke loves his sister, and knows her heart, he supposes, it’s really her mind he can’t make heads or tales of. She’s not _rational_ , for all she claims to be. 

Funny enough, more than once Leia’s complained the same of him - not being rational, that is. He’s all heart and _no_ head and that’s just as bad, his mom says, as not listening to one’s heart. 

This is why, no matter how different they look, they’re unmistakable as twins. 

And even beyond that, they are never mistaken as the children of anyone but their parents. Not that there’s such a large pool in which to be mistaken. Their little corner of Naboo is fairly quiet, and it is only their visits to the capitol that generate undo attention. 

Logically, Luke has known since he was old enough to grasp the concept that his mother is relatively famous on and off world for her role in global and galactic politics. Meanwhile, his father’s renown is mostly contained to the slews of Popular Aeronaymics subscribers and starfighter engineering corps. employees. 

But mostly, they’ve enjoyed their anonymity. 

The house in which they live is fairly modest - they share it with his grandmother Shmi and Grandfather Cliegg - and only down the road are his slew of cousins, and an aunt and uncle a pair, one for each side of the family. Not but three days ago, Mama had even discussed the possibility of his other grandparents returning to the small mountain village that had once been their home. In fact, that home is the one in which the Skywalker and extended clan currently live. Grandpa Ruwee had built it himself, just like Father had built their speeder and the swoop bike that was parked out back under the overhang, since his garage was full to bursting with experiments. 

Luke stares out the window of his bedroom; outside, rain comes down in tracts, clear like warped sheets of plasteel. The trees give it an unremitting greenish cast and the looming shadow of the mountains darkens the sky even further. It’s a beautiful place, their home, and he casts his gaze on that most ancient tree, the one around which grandmother Jobal had built the garden, insistent that it not be sacrificed in the process of their turning the land into a home. There, he and Leia had spent long summer mornings, hidden high up in the branches trading shurra fruits back and forth and laughing through selections of classical Nabooian comedic plays. More than once, Leia had snatched from him the role of the great defender, instead leaving him to read the parts of the wide eyed youth; though she was just shy of a minute younger than he, he’d always felt more youthful than her by far. Perhaps it was her penchant for dominating every room she was in, perhaps it was because she refused to be a delicate petal for anyone save Father. 

_Especially_ Mama.

But those days, luxuriating in the spackled sunlight filtered through shady greenery are long past. It’s the work of a moment to swing himself up onto that branch, though once it had seemed so high and in his adulthood, Luke is nowhere near his father’s impressive height, and never will be, for all the grumbling he’s done about it. Now they are grown, he and Leia both, and they do not sit in old trees and carve their dreams as constellations from the sky amidst that smooth bark and run wildly about in the flower covered fields just south of the village, tumbling through yellow pollen till they’re dizzy, nor scramble for Mama’s kisses, each with a bouquet in hand, or reach up for Father that he might perch them up his shoulder each in turn and rocket through the garden, calling out commentary as though they were a speeder in a race. 

No more. 

Yesterday, Luke had watched Leia from this same window, her luggage by her feet, her chin tilted imperiously up and her large brown eyes unwavering with emotion as Father bent down on a single knee and took her hands into his and kissed them and spoke his solemn farewell before drawing her in to him, holding her impossibly close. 

She’d pressed her lips in a benediction to their Father’s forehead and Luke did not need to see her lips move to know what she was saying. 

Leia had practiced the farewell for two hours the night before. 

To the side is Mama, smiling benignly. For all Father is unhappy to see her go, there’s been no unhappy grumblings between their parents over Leia’s decision and departure. They’ve always, so long as Luke can remember, been a fairly harmonious duo when it comes to one another, though they have each in turn had their own blow-ups when it came to news on the galactic politics front, or even that time that Luke had gotten in trouble for secreting wild pets into the schoolrooms in his pockets. 

So long ago now, but Luke smiles more fondly on that as he remembers it, than he does the vision of the day before. 

_Goodbye Papa,_ the goodbye began. _I will be home for the spring festival and I fully anticipate that when I am, you will have finished with the updated schematics, as promised. I would be ever so unhappy if they’re not._

And Luke had pretended, obligingly, to be Father, with his one sky-blue eye a roiling storm of melancholy to watch his petal depart on the winds of the world. 

_As you wish it, my dearest girl_. _You wouldn’t be mad at your old Papa, would you?_

Of course, Luke doesn’t know what their Father actually said, but something in him was sure he hadn’t been too far off, because Papa had not released her from the hold, standing instead with Leia still in his embrace and swung back and forth gently, as though she were still a child, before setting her back on her - never dainty, not that, no, Luke _foreswears_ it, for all their tiny size - slippered feet. 

Leia’s greatest asset has forever been that her stormy and indomitable personality is wrapped up in cacao curls and porcelain features more befitting a doll than a girl with the wildness of the wind trapped within her spirit. 

Squeezing their father’s hands once more, she’d finally glanced up at the window, their gazes unerring locking, and Luke could feel her words, the way he always could when he knew she meant to speak to him.

_Sure you won’t come with, Luke?_

_They’re not going to know what hit them when you get there. Wouldn’t be fair to them if I joined you._

_Who's to say I want it to be fair?_

He’d only smiled at that, but Luke well knew that she’d be able to feel the warmth of his affection all the same. _Knock ‘em dead, Leia._

_I’ll see you soon._

Not soon enough for his liking, but he chose not to broadcast what she already knew. It was meant to be a happy moment for her, and she deserved to revel in the excitement of her forthcoming journey, not spend it feeling bad that for the very first time in all their nineteen years, they two were to be separated on a grander scale than having their own rooms in the house. 

_Love you, Luke._

_Love you, too._

Maybe her eyes shone more in the memory than they had in the moment, but Luke held on to that. She would miss him, and he felt it even if she hadn’t said it in that moment. After they’d practiced her goodbye to Father ten times, she had curled up beside him on his bed and laid her slender hand on his stomach, pillowed her head on his chest. 

“Luke?” 

“Mhmm?”

“Do you think I should do this?” 

The simple fact of it had been that he loved her more than he wanted to keep her for himself. And Luke had never been particularly prone to lying. 

“Yes,” he’d said then, curling his arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his chest. “I do.” And then, because it was true, he added. “There’s no one better for the job than you, Leia.”

She hadn’t replied, only breathing quietly against him, relishing in their closeness. 

He’d miss it, the simplicity of their childhood, their companionship, their siblinghood, but he will never begrudge her the opportunity to fulfill her dreams. 

The rain washes away the memory of the day before, and Luke stares out the window and the phantom of her figure instead, draped in sable and sage, her hair twisted intricately up, looking every inch her mother’s daughter in her bearing and set of her jaw. He can’t help but think it again, how they’d never know what hit them when she made it to the senate floor as a member of the Nabooian delegations. 

In the midst of this melancholic contemplation, Luke does not miss his father’s bright presence at the door. 

“Come in, Father.” 

The door creaks open and his father’s reassuring face peers expectantly back. “I can feel you brooding from downstairs. It’s giving me a headache.”

Luke, despite himself, manages to smile. Father unfailingly is capable of such feats. Not that Luke is often melancholy, nor even prone to it. He’s always been the more easily genial of the twins, and they both know it. As much relish as Leia takes in being the prickly one - and it is relish, because she has ever so much fun in being contrary, precisely the reason she’s made for the political scene - Luke is forever glad to simply be glad. Why anyone would want to spend time being purposefully unhappy he doesn’t know. 

Ironically, though, for all that Father is capable of cheering him, it is Leia who more closely resembles their father in temperament. But then, perhaps it is not so surprising, for no one in the world makes Luke so happy as Leia. But then, they _are_ twins and know one another best of anyone. 

But with or without Leia, Father is not so bad a substitute. Not by half. Mom’s not shabby either, but there’s something special about father.

Father is well... _Father_. Luke doesn’t really know how to describe it. In some regards, Father is the most straightforward individual Luke has ever meant. When he’s happy, its apparent in every cell of his body, in every iota of the living world around him; it’s as though the environment senses his emotions and reflects them constantly. No one else, not even Leia, is like that. It’s the most wonderful feeling, when the emotions reflected are warm.

But Father, with his scarred and blind eye, a milky white, with his cybernetic arm, all gold and lustre, is not always warm.

Sometimes, Father is hotter than a supernova sun, sometimes colder than the most isolated white dwarf, and neither is pleasant. But that’s rare, exceptionally so, and mostly, Luke basks in his warmth.

“Sorry,” Luke apologizes as Father comes to sit on the bed beside him. “It’s hard, being without her. It’s stupid though, she’s barely been gone ten hours. We’ve spent this long – longer – apart before, but it doesn’t feel the same.”

Father’s flesh hand rests on his head, drawing him in, and much as Leia had two nights before, Luke allows his father to draw him in and rests against the steady rise and fall of his broad chest. “Of course it doesn’t feel the same.” Luke can sense it, in waves, his father’s own gloom at Leia’s departure. “She’s going to be away for a long time. Last time you were apart this many hours, you were sure to reunite the next day. Of course that would hit differently.”

Sometimes, Luke thinks about how young Father is, compared to Uncle Darred, how young, and yet, how much older he sometimes seems. Presently, Luke can’t decide if Father feels younger or older now, in the midst of their commiseration.

“You’re allowed to miss your sister, Luke.”

“I know. I just wish…”

“That she didn’t have to go at all. Moreover, that she didn’t want to go.”

Luke looks away, ducking his head to the side for all the good it will do. As surely as he can sense his father, his father can sense him…well…practically anywhere. Regardless, the thought that brings shame into his heart harrows him more than a little. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s really not,” Father pushes back, unrelenting.

Luke’s lips press thin. “I _know_ that I’m being stupid. Leia loves us. And it’s selfish of me to think that she’s leaving us behind. It’s not about _us_. It’s about Leia. And her path. And I _want_ her to walk it and be happy. I just-“

“Don’t want to lose her for the walking of it.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“You won’t lose her, Luke.”

“I know that.” Which is, of course, the problem. He knows, but that doesn’t make it feel any better.

Father – _Papa_ , Luke’s heart whispers, though he hasn’t called Father by such a title since he was very small – presses a kiss to his crown. Again, so very much like what Luke had done with Leia the night before. It’s comforting in the extreme and Luke allows it to continue, glad for the consolation.

“You’ll visit her, of course.”

“What?”

Father shrugs, jostling Luke lightly, but Luke’s already pulling back, sitting up. “I just presumed you’d want to visit her. Should I not have?”

Wide eyed, Luke blinks. “No, I just didn’t think that would be something we’d do.”

And there, at the ‘we’, Father’s face tightens, Luke can see it (not that Father has ever been excellent at keeping his face expressionless – there had never been such things surprises in their home), as ever it does at the mention of leaving the planet. Which his father hasn’t done, at least, not since before Luke and Leia were born. The holomags, which Luke used to collect when he was little _because_ of Father, had always chalked it up to reclusively, but Luke’s never really looked at his father and seen the equivalent of the mysterious, genius, ascetic engineer.

No, when his father looks to the stars, it’s with a wistfulness Luke knows all to well.

“Why don’t you ever leave Naboo, father?”

Father sighs.

It is a valid enough question. Mama leaves fairly frequently, though less so now than when they were younger and she still held a more significant role in galactic politics. But Father? Never once. Not even to the space dock just within planetary gravitational range. It wasn’t something that had gone unnoticed, either by Luke or Leia, but since no one had ever mentioned it, neither had they. But in Leia’s absence, Luke doesn’t have to be the reasonable one, and gives in to the years old desire to ask. (Maybe it’s a bit childish of him, but he relishes knowing that Leia will be jealous and irate with him once she discovers that he’s done when he always admonished her against).

“I see the way you look at the stars. You design and build all these magnificent ships and you never fly them. But you want to. I _know_ you want to.”

Father levels his gaze contemplatively. “I’m surprised it took you so long to ask.”

“Leia wanted to. Barely listened to me when I said we shouldn’t.”

Father is no fool and follows Luke’s train of though with a raised brow and a smirk. “Some brother.”

Flushing, but managing a smile all the same, Luke ducks his head for a moment before looking back up. “Well?”

“Well indeed. Where to begin. You know I’m not from Naboo.”

Luke nods. Grandmother Shmi and the Lars relations are all from Tatooine, well, _sort_ of. He knows that they all used to live there. That Father used to live there too, that he and Mama met there as children. They’d not spared Luke and Leia the knowledge of the Skywalker history; when they were quite young they’d never wondered about Father’s cybernetic arm, but when other children started to, it was the first time Luke or Leia had ever looked and seen anything abnormal.

Slave had already been a dirty word in their home.

But Luke has always been proud of his father and grandmother, proud of how they never let themselves be smothered by the galaxy’s cruelties. Many times, over the years, Luke had pulled his father’s hand into his lap and traced the black ink lines deep within the skin, the broken chains turning into birds, flying far, far away.

And here, Father had flown, found himself grounded, and, at some point, never left.

“Yes, Father, you don’t have to start _that_ far back.”

A sad little smile lights his father’s good eye.

“Well, you know that I raced around the galaxy for a good few months before reuniting with your mother again, and from there we headed to the core and did a whole bunch of diplomatic missions to other planets before we eventually decided that our mutual interest in one another made for a bit of a conflict in priorities and I quit her security force and ended up back here, doing what I do now, essentially.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “Yes, Father.” Between them, his parents have told their story many times, and always with an almost gag inducing fondness. “I know.”

“Well, eventually, I ended up back on Coruscant with your mom because I was tasked with working on the Chancellor’s private shuttle.”

Now _that_ is news. Luke abstains from commentary, listening intently instead, but Father has stalled.

“He wasn’t a good man, Luke.”

It’s redundant, this statement. _Everyone_ knows that Palpatine is Naboo’s great disgrace. The Chancellor who tried to become an Emperor. The Chancellor who orchestrated the Great Clone War. They’d learned about him early in their history books, gotten a chance too, to read their own mother’s name there beside his.

Mama has never shied away from talking about it; _it’s important_ , she says, whenever it comes up. _Forgetting is dangerous. History is the only roadmap we have to a better future._

“What did you learn about his death?” Father asks, and Luke gets a particular tickling sensation at the back of his neck. Frowning a bit, he ignores the question, searching that bright, impossible sunlight which radiates from Father’s person.

“You probably know better than my history books, don’t you, Father? I can see it within you.”

Father’s light mutes itself, hiding away behind the veil that Luke has never been able to piece on the rare occasion that it’s pulled forth. “Humour me.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “He was assassinated. The person who killed him was caught.” Though he peers harder, Luke still cannot draw aside that metal divide. “The identity of the individual was never released to the public. They said that the Chancellor was brutally murdered in ‘a fashion as yet unidentifiable’. Where are you going with this?”

It should be obvious, save that the obvious is…frankly, it would be mind boggling. Luke puts it aside as impossible.

“Some things are worth risking everything to protect,” Father settles on, a hard edge to his tone. For as long as Luke can remember, he’s found Father’s accent to be fascinating. Grandmother Shmi’s is closest to his, but there’s something distinctly Coruscanti about the way Father speaks, as though Grandmother’s accent were taken and smooshed together with Uncle Obi-Wan’s. Father’s accent rolls fluidly off the tongue, even when it’s at its most stiff, defiant.

Father’s words now, are just as beautiful in their sonorousness, but the implication, which Luke had categorized so readily as impossible, is terrible.

Beautiful and terrible.

Luke swallows, his throat suddenly gone dry and thick all at once.

“Your mother. You. Your sister.” Father doesn’t look at him. Looks instead at the hands in his lap, flexes the cybernetic one, still covered in the glove. “Everyone in the Galaxy, really. They were all worth it.”

There’s no point in asking for details. Father’s never exactly been a ‘details’ sort of person, except under very specific circumstances. Building a speeder, planning his and Mama’s anniversary, building presents for his and Leia’s birthday. Those things, father spends an inordinate amount of time planning down to the most intricate of details.

Everything else…

Father’s idea of storytelling is a lot more fluid than Mama’s. Mama spares no detail. She’s particularly longwinded. In this, they have always complimented one another.

So Luke doesn’t ask Father for the details. Never has anyone save Leia told him he wasn’t smart ( _only_ Leia is allowed to tease him, and he her.), and he certainly has wits enough to put together the pertinent components of the story that Father doesn’t spell out for him.

Father is a murderer, albeit, probably a justified one, and his punishment is planetary confinement.

“I see.” And mostly, he does. Really, the details probably _aren’t_ that important. He _knows_ Father, after all. “Well, where would you go, if you could? Where would you take us?”

Almost like a child, Father flops back onto Luke’s mattress, looks up at the sky, painted with the Nabooian constellations.

“Everywhere.”

Luke smiles and lays back by Father’s side. “Then I’ll go everywhere for you. Leia and I together. I think we could accomplish it.”

There again is Father’s warmth, come rushing back. “Yes. I believe you could. Some days, I think there is nothing to two of you cannot do together.”

An infinite sadness pierces Luke’s heart quite suddenly, for all the things the Father will never be able to do, and it must resonate, because Father shifts, turning to look at him.

“Don’t be sad, Luke. I have everything that matters.” Father pats his arm reassuringly, then sits up. “We’re holocalling your sister in an hour to see how she’s settled in,” he says, as though they weren’t just discussing a sordid family history to which Luke was heretofore completely oblivious. “We’ll see you in Mom’s study?” 

Absently, Luke nods and father sits up, plants his hands on his thighs and stands, sturdy as ever, a monolith in the ocean of Luke’s turbulence, before leaving the room without another word.

 _Everything that matters_.

Luke thinks of Mama, her bright eyes warm and caring, of his grandparents and their fond exasperation, of his cousins and their mischief. Of Father’s tenderness. And of Leia. Though they are parted by the greatest distance of his life, Luke closes his eyes and stretches out his consciousness, reaching for her instinctually. He doesn’t have to try too hard before he can feel her presence brush against his with all the strength of a Nabooian sunshower – bright and beaming through the grey light of the sky.

Yes, Luke smiles.

Everything that matters.


End file.
